Broken Road
by Anamarie Chambers
Summary: Sometimes you have to take a few detours before you find your way home. Romy. Complete!
1. Chapter 1

This is my first attempt at fanfiction. I would appreciate all the constructive criticism you can give me. Please no flames! (I'm thinkin' these are mean messages. I'm not totally sure but since I have yet to see a note asking for them, I'm deducing that they're not great to get. I know, you're all thinking where does she get her **amazing **powers of insight? I can only answer: fish!)

The title was inspired by Rascall Flatts' "Bless the Broken Road" song.

I'm not making any money off this. Please do not sue me.

I don't own the lyrics; I just like them.

I don't own any of the characters...unfortunately. But, if Marvel wants to give them to me...my birthday's coming up...

Oh, and yeah, long live the Romy!

Anamarie

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Chapter 1

_**When happily ever after fails  
And we've been poisoned by these fairy tales**_

**---Don Henley, Age of Innocence**

"Hey."

"Hey."

She slid into the booth across from him. He was tracing his fingers over the painted tiles of the tabletop. He mimicked the different designs, following their curves, imitating their motion. All of his attention focused on the swipes of his fingers, his eyes never once rising to catch hers. After a few minutes, her hand moved to cover his and she stroked his knuckles, her gloved touch whispering against his skin. He still didn't look up and she suppressed an exasperated sigh.

"Cody?"

He hunched his shoulders and—she didn't think it was possible—stared even more pointedly at the designs on the table. "Anna-Marie, Ah need ya to listen to me. An' don't interrupt me none, either." He kept his head down but didn't remove his hand from under hers.

"We've been datin' for five years now…since we was seventeen. We've even stayed together during college. Ah was here at state an' you were over there at that private university in New York. Even through the whole…no touching thing…

"Ah think you're beautiful, an' smart, an'…an'…well…you know…but…" he drew in a shaky breath and finally raised his face to meet hers. Her brow furrowed as she looked into his wet eyes.

"Cody?" Anxiety swelled in her chest. "Wh-what's goin' on?"

"Oh gawd, Anna…" he pursed his lips, set his jaw, and looked at her again. "Ah met someone."

She snatched her hand back, rubbing it as if she had been physically burned by his words. "What do you mean? What do you mean you 'met someone'? Ah've met lots of people at my school an'…" Her green eyes narrowed. "Did you sleep with her?" She could hear the level of her voice rising as she pronounced each word. Feeling her face grow red, she grabbed the ice water that had appeared in front of her, and held it to her cheek.

"Anna, calm down. We're in a res—"

"Calm down!" she hissed. "Are you for real? If Ah'd just told you that Ah'd found someone else while you were away being totally faithful to me, would _you_ be calm?" She ignored the curious looks of the people sitting across the aisle, her temper getting the better of her. "Answer the question. Did you sleep with her?" Her teeth clenched.

His nostrils flared and he lowered his head, and immediately began tracing the paintings again.

For a moment, she watched his task, watched as he followed the petals of flowers and the line of leaves, watched as he pretended to be an artist, watched as he fought to keep his head down. It was too much; the levy broke. She stiffened, a strange numbness exploding in her chest and sliding out to her fingertips. Tears began to form behind the bridge of her nose so she forced all of her attention on just breathing. Standing, she pulled the strap of her purse over her shoulder and turned on her heel.

"Anna!" He ran after her, catching the strap, slowing her retreat. "Listen…Ah'm sorry. Ah nevah meant to hurt you. Ah…just…Ah fell in love."

**X**

He had to laugh at himself as he stepped off the elevator. "Remy Lebeau, you are one lucky _homme_!" He fished out the key card to her room and allowed himself a smirk. It had been too easy to swipe it from behind the front desk; the young redhead had just been an added bonus.

Eyeing a room service cart, he snatched a bouquet from its crystal vase. Sliding the key card through and twisting the handle at the same time, he swept into the room in one fluid movement.

The bouquet hit the floor first.

Next, Remy was sure, was his jaw.

"Remy! Wait!" The blonde woman ran through the hotel lobby, her bathrobe flying out behind her, exposing a red and black negligee. She threw her arms around the handsome man's neck. "It wasn't what it looked like, _cher_!" She forced against his chest, burying her face into him.

His hands were balled up at his sides, he spat out angrily, "Really, Bella? 'Cause it looked like you was fuckin' some ot'er _homme_."

He slammed his fists into his pockets, stepping away at the same time. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. Correction: the next thing he wanted to do was hurt her. First thing he wanted to do required a lead pipe and the naked guy in her suite. He allowed himself a satisfying visual and an evil smile.

"Remy! Look, we gotta talk dis t'rough!" Her voice was filled with panic as she raced toward him once more, gripping the sleeve of his coat.

Letting out a strangled chuckle, he set his blazing eyes on her. "You wanna talk!" He sneered, taking a small leather case from his pocket and shoving it in her face. "I came up dere t' ask you t' marry me." He allowed himself an unhappy smile as her eyes widened. She opened and shut her mouth silently. _Yeah, hurts don't it?_ "You a real piece of work, you know dat?" Detaching her hands from his coat, he turned on his heel and moved up the sidewalk.

He was fuming. He could feel her eyes boring into his back as he walked away from her. "Stupid _femme_." Tears were beginning to run down his face but he angrily wiped them away. More than anger, he felt embarrassed. Embarrassed to have found the woman he thought he loved in a compromising position with another man. Embarrassed to have let his heart get the better of him. Embarrassed that he knew…deep down…despite everything…he probably still loved her. But it was the anger that was currently the strongest emotion and he couldn't resist the urge to throw the price of her infidelity in her face.

Against the side of a building, a rumpled man with an American flag clutched in one hand looked up at him. "Help for a veteran?" He struggled under the angry young man's gaze.

Remy felt his face soften. "Here, _homme_, maybe you can hock it or somet'in'." He tossed the older gentleman the box.


	2. Chapter 2

I've never actually read a comic with JP in it, but I've read several fanfictions where he and Remy are friends, and I love the dynamics of this friendship! I've made them friends since childhood so there's this banter quota that I have to fill.

I'm so stoked that I got some reviews! (That's right, 'stoked'!) :)

Ishandahalf: Ohmigod! I love your stories! If you see anything that needs tweaking, let me know!

ColossusR: Thanks so much for reviewing. Let me know what you think.

Also, if there's anyone out there that has any nonflame reviews for me, I'll take them!

Again, I don't own anything...not the characters, not the lyrics, not a thing...

Anamarie

Chapter 2

**I'm into having sex, I ain't into making love**

**---50 Cent, In Da Club**

Jean Paul Beaubier hated being kept waiting. His companion had yet to appear and the more the minutes crept by the more gifts Jean Paul expected. "All right," he thought to himself, "that's it, _mon ami_, ten more minutes and I'll be expecting a diamond ring!" He ran a hand through his short white hair before inspecting his fingers and imagining how a sparkling ring would look.

A slender wooden case was dropped unceremoniously into the man's lap. He jumped, nearly tumbling the mug sitting on the table in front of him.

"Careful, JP, you don' wan' spill dat coffee on ya."

Jean Paul fixed his blue eyes on the smirking face sliding into the booth across from him. "You're right; I'd freeze."

Remy chuckled. "'m jus' surprised you di'n't scream like a _femme_." He pointed at the case, his red and black eyes twinkling merrily. "Go on, JP, you know you wan' open it."

The other man smiled, carefully opening the clasp on the sleek pine case. Silk lining shone under the restaurant's dim lighting. He ran his fingers lightly across the material before placing the case on the table and gently lifting a jewel-encrusted dagger from its resting place. "Oh, Remy…_tres magnifique_!"

"_Bon_. It's f'r you. You're such a _fille_ when I'm late." He rolled his eyes.

"If only you were gay. I'd take you home in an instant."

Remy raised an eyebrow. "_Desolé, mon ami_. I don' swing dat way…still."

"It's just a waste, Remy." Jean Paul sighed and replaced the dagger. "So, I assume you've called me to watch you wallow in self-pity some more? I told you, Belladonna was not the one for you."

He winced at the name and ran a hand through his brown hair. He pushed back the strands falling in eyes, unsuccessfully tucking them behind his ears and huffing as they fell back into his line of sight. "Don' wan' t' t'ink 'bout her right now."

"Remy…it's been three months…you have to move on…and don't tell me you have…I do not consider jumping from bed to bed to be healing!"

"You been talkin' to 'Ro again, ain'tcha?"

JP stiffened. "Actually…yes…that was from her."

"Tell her not t' worry 'bout me." He winked at the server as a glass of champagne was placed in front of him. She giggled as she walked away. JP rolled his eyes.

"Why don't you come to the Institute? I know they'd take you. I'd bet they'd even let you teach a class on art appreciation."

Remy laughed as he shook his head. "I ain't a teacher, JP. Dat's you an' Stormy."

"She'd kill you if she heard you call her that." He tried another approach. "Rem, we have been friends since we were kids."

"An' you tried to kiss me…"

"You were sending signals…"

"To your sister."

"Details!" He waved his hand. "The point, _mon ami_, is that I care what happens to you. Ororo does too. You would really like working there. Can't you consider it?"

He grinned but shook his head again. "_Non_. B'sides, de reason I dragged your sorry ass out tonight was to let you know dat I'm leavin' New York."

His friend's eyes widened. "_Quoi_?"

"'Cause I got me a job offer…in Paris." He dumped several bills on the table as he stood up. Patting his friend on the shoulder, he leaned forward conspiratorially. "Oh, and, JP? Don't underestimate the healing effect of bed-hopping." He strode away, grinning charmingly at the young champagne server who stood waiting by the bar, a jacket slung over her arm.

X

"Anna?"

She flinched. "Just Rogue, please."

"Sorry. Rogue?"

"Yes?"

"Professor Xavier and I have decided to let you stay on at the Institute…as a full-time teacher."

The young lady leaned her head back in relief, her white bangs mixing into the auburn of the rest of her hair. "Thank Gawd." She tilted her face so that her green eyes could look into Ororo Munroe's blue ones.

The Kenyan woman nodded regally. "You deserve it. You took all of those classes at the University while still maintaining your…training…here. Besides, you've been a great teacher's assistant. I still do not know how you did it all."

Rogue offered a weak smile. "Nuthin' much else t' do 'cept study."

Ororo grimaced at the self-loathing in her young friend's voice. "I know that your breakup was incredibly hard on you. But I think…I know…that there is someone better out there for you. Someone who will not leave you for another girl."

Rogue raised an eyebrow. "Storm…every guy will undoubtedly leave me for another girl. At some point, they'll get tired of not being able to…_do_ anything. They'll want a girl they can touch. Ah don't blame Cody…he held on for a long while. Longer than anyone else could."

"You don't believe that. What about Bobby? I've seen the way the two of you look at each other. Is there something there?"

"He says there is. An', Ah don't know…Ah do like 'im. Ah…Ah just…Ah don't want to hurt him. An' Ah don't want to get left again."

Ororo nodded. "Well, you'll know what to do. Meanwhile, you can get ready to start teaching!" She rubbed her hands together and fished a key out of her desk. "You will absolutely love your room! It overlooks the gardens." She paused. "Did you hear something?"

Rogue tilted her head. "Cell phone?"

She whipped her long, silver hair over to one shoulder as she flipped her cell phone open and placed it to her ear. "Hello? Hey, JP." She winked at Rogue who instantly sat back down. JP was a nice guy…a great teacher…but boy, could the man talk!

"He's going _where_! Put him on the phone, Jean Paul. What do you mean--?" Rogue watched with interest as her friend's face turned several shades of pink. She flipped her phone closed and sat down in her chair.

"Are you okay, Ororo?" She seemed much older than her thirty years.

She managed a pathetic smile. "JP and I have a mutual friend. He's practically family to both of us. He's…been going through a rough breakup…just like you."

Rogue nodded.

"He caught his girlfriend…the day he was going to propose."

The younger woman's brow furrowed. She felt a tiny piece of her heart go out to him. His breakup was way worse than hers could have been. At least, she reasoned, Cody had had the decency to tell her. She didn't know what she would have done if she'd _caught_ him…but she was fairly sure there would have been draining involved. "So, is he, off the deep end?"

Ororo laughed. "No. Well…no more than usual."

"Why are you so worried then?"

She focused her blue eyes on a pile of papers on her desk. "He's running away."


	3. Chapter 3

Still don't own anything.

Chapter 3

_**All this time you were pretending**_

_**So much for my happy ending**_

**---Avril Lavigne, My Happy Ending**

Rogue pushed a loose wisp of white hair behind her ear and huffed when it fell back into her eyes. She had locked herself in her office with explicit instructions for no one to bother her if they valued life or limb. She had a mountain of final essays to grade before the annual Christmas party, unless she wanted to be stuck doing it during her one-month vacation. She growled when someone rapped on her door.

"Go. Away."

The knocking persisted and she found herself mumbling words that would make Logan blush. Pushing away from her desk, she rolled herself over to the door, a silly smile appearing despite her irritated mood. She loved rolling around her room in her chair; it was a challenge…sort of like pinball. She had to push off from different locations to keep herself moving. Sometimes she would roll out her door and down the hallway, just because. It always got a good laugh from some of the more reserved students and teachers, and, at the very least, it made her smile. She briefly wondered if she should challenge the Professor to a little race.

Wiping her grin away, she opened the door from her seat, ready to shoot death rays out of her eyes. Instantly, an even larger smile split across her face and she leapt to her feet. "Bobby!" She threw her arms around his neck and buried her head into his chest.

He laughed, returning the hug. "Surprised to see me?"

She placed a gloved hand over his mouth and kissed the back of it. "Ah thought you weren't gonna be able to come to the party!"

"And miss seein' my favorite girl? Not a chance!" He picked at a curl on her shoulder, his icy blue eyes shining with mischief. "Besides, you were tellin' me that you're closer to controlling your powers." He watched as her smile faltered a tiny bit. "What? What is it, Rogue?"

She shook her head, her smile brightening once more. "Nothing. Ah got papers to mark." She stepped back from him and nearly fell over her chair. "Forgot about that."

"What's wrong? I thought you'd be happy to see me!" He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest.

She pushed her chair back into its position behind the desk and stared at her gloved hands. "It ain't nuthin'. Ah…" her voice caught in her throat and she looked back up at him, tears shining in her eyes. "Is that the only reason you came today?"

Confusion wrinkled his forehead. "What are you talking about?"

"You weren't gonna come back for Christmas. Ah remember you telling me…some sort of thing with X-Corp. An' now you're here."

"To surprise you."

"Because Ah said that Ah thought Ah was closer to controlling my powers?" She felt like an object. Her heart was constricting in her chest and she wasn't sure that she was going to be able to breathe.

"Well, I'm not gonna lie, Rogue. I do want you to control your powers. I want us to be able to…relate…the way other couples do, to take this to the next level. I thought you wanted that too."

She forced a laugh and covered her face with her hands. "Ah know…Ah'm sorry. Ah—you're going to think Ah'm crazy. Ah had this…feeling…that maybe…you weren't comin' back because you had found someone else."

"Someone I could touch, you mean?"

She put her head down, ashamed to have doubted him. "Yeah."

"Hey? Bobby?"

Rogue's head flew up to find a beautiful girl with long green hair putting a hand on _her_ boyfriend's shoulder. Her eyes narrowed and she stared pointedly at Bobby.

The color had drained from his face.

"Bobby? I know you said it'd only take a second, but if we're going to make it to the cabin by nightfall, we've got to go now." She cast her gaze on Rogue. "Oh, you must be Bobby's friend, Rogue. He's told me so much about you. It's nice to meet you." She offered her hand and Rogue eyed it for a minute, considering whether or not it would be rude to wear her gloves to shake hands. The other girl's eyes held no malice, so she gripped her hand and plastered a smile on her face.

"An' you are?"

"Has he not told you yet?" She slapped his shoulder playfully.

Rogue shook her head.

"I'm Lorna. His girlfriend." She smiled warmly and turned her adoring eyes on Bobby.

"Right." Rogue pushed past them and sprinted down the corridor. Heavy footsteps followed after her. A hand gripped her arm and pulled her around.

"Listen, Rogue, I—"

"Got tired of waiting around." She finished for him. "Let's see if Ah can help ya out some, Iceman. You found someone new…who you can touch…and then when Ah told ya that Ah think Ah've almost got my power under control, you decide to try an' have your cake an' eat it too? That about cover it?"

He shook his head. "I never meant to hurt you, Rogue. It was the furthest thing from my mind. I just…" he shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "…fell in love."

X

"_Vous m'avez utilize_ (You used me)." Her voice shuddered as a tear slipped down her cheek.

His shoulders slumped, but only slightly. "_Même comme vous m'utilisiez_ (Same as you were using me)." He managed to bury the guilt, to burn it out of his system…the same way his powers burned up objects. He knew he had to look at her and the idea of that killed him. He could hear the tears in her voice, hell, he could almost taste the salt, and the idea of hurting someone…no matter how much he had wanted to at the time…scratched at his soul now.

Hardening his face, he turned to look at her. "_Le fils d'une chienne_ (Son of a bitch)!" He raised his hands up so that she could see he had no weapon. "_Mettre cela baisant la chose en bas_ (Put that fucking thing down)!" His eyes flashed threateningly. "Genny…"

Her brown hair was a mess of tangled, wind-blown curls that fell about her face like a deranged halo. Sooty tracks ran from her eyes and dripped off her chin. She was shaking—perhaps she was cold?—as she held a gun out in front of her. "_Je tombais dans l'amour avec vous ! J'ai pensé…j'ai pensé a pensé que vous m'avez aimé aussi. Mais c'était tout un jeu, n'est-ce pas ?_ _Vous avez voulu seulement le diamant_. (I was falling in love with you! I thought…I thought that you loved me too. But it was all a game, wasn't it? You only wanted the diamond.)"

He had to get the gun away from her before she hurt herself…or worse yet, put some holes in his new duster. The guilt that he swore he had burned seemed to rise up in him now as he studied her tear-streaked face and trembling body. Maybe she really had loved him? He doubted it…but it had been nice to hold her in his arms at night. He dropped his hands to his sides and moved toward her.

"_Non!_" She raised the pistol.

"Genny, _ceci est fou!. Me donner le fusil. _(Genny, this is crazy! Give me the gun.)" He held an open palm out to her, his voice becoming soft and rhythmic.

She stared into his eyes. "_Vous m'avez aimé même un petit ?_ (Did you love me even a little?)" It was so soft that he barely even heard.

His heart constricted. Yes, he had loved her a little. But it wasn't personal, it was work; she had been an excellent target. He had been hired to steal the diamond from her. Still wounded from the spear Belle had thrown into his heart, he had decided to play her, use her. He was ashamed to admit it, but he doubted he would really remember her. He had thought it would make him feel stronger, but as he looked into her watery eyes, he felt weaker than a baby.

"_Ouí,_ Genny. _Plus qu'un peu_. (Yes, Genny. More than a little.)"

She smiled. It was as fragile as a dove's wing, but it was a smile. She set the pistol in his open hand. "_Vous êtes calme allant me partir cependant, n'est-ce pas?_ (You are still going to leave me though, aren't you?)"

He focused his attention on emptying the bullets. The gun began to glow a faint pink and Genny gasped as he tossed it high into the air moments before it exploded. He nodded his head. "_Ouí_." He ran his thumb down her cheek, smearing the tracks. "_Je suis désolé, petite une, mais je ne suis pas le l'un. Je vous aime, mais je ne suis pas le l'un_. (I am sorry, little one, but I am not the one. I do love you, but I am not the one.)"

"_Ou, peut-être, je ne suis pas le l'un pour vous_. (Or, perhaps, I am not the one for you.)" She smiled sadly again before turning on her heel and moving through the darkness away from him. "_J'espère que vous la trouvez_, Remy. (I hope you find her, Remy.)"

* * *

Well, there you have it...Remy did go to Paris...what would Stormy and JP say? Think he'll divulge his actions? Probably not...and would they really want to know? 

Rogue tried her luck with Bobby...damn that green-haired girl! (shakes fist)

I apologize for the French...I had to use an online translator since I didn't have the foresight to take French in high school or college. Let me know what you think...I was a little apprehensive about this chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

Still don't own anything.

Chapter 4

_**Now you come around  
Signifyin a woman  
That don't wanna let me ride**_

**---Wilson Pickett, Mustang Sally**

Rogue gripped the steering wheel and silently cursed out the asshole tailgating her. _All Ah gotta do is tap on my brakes an' that dumb shit'll rear end me!_ She pulled her gaze from the rearview mirror and snuck a glance at the person sitting next to her.

Xavier's Institute was doing very well. The semester's attendance had increased by almost twenty percent, creating a significant need for more teachers. The Professor had added three to the faculty, all beginning at the start of the third quarter. One of the additions was sitting next to her.

She tried not to openly stare at him, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. There was something about him that sent butterflies zooming through her nerve endings. His lips curled into a smirk and she realized that he realized she was looking at him.

Pulling her vision to the front once more, she peeked into the rearview again. "Damn it!"

He raised an eyebrow as he turned to her.

"Get offa my ass!"

He laughed. "I'm not on it, I swear!" Hands were held up in mock surrender.

"No! Ah didn't mean—" she stopped, seeing the grin on his face. Smiling, she shoved her thumb over her shoulder. "That Mustang won't stop riding my bumper."

He grinned. "I'm glad. I've been desperately trying to come up with a good pick-up line to get you talking." His blue eyes twinkled.

"Figure any out?"

"No…they all sound corny." He extended his hand. "I know we sort of met at the airport, but I don't feel like we actually made proper introductions. I'm Joseph."

"Rogue."

He tilted his head, appraising her with his sharp eyes. "You always go by your alias?"

"Yeah." She tried to give him a hard look but failed miserably. "Don't you think it makes me sound sexy?"

He chuckled. "Invariably."

She felt him hesitate next to her. She could practically see the courage working itself up to ask her a question. She licked her lips.

"Hey, Rogue?" He leveled his gaze.

"Yes?" She steadily returned it.

A horn blared; the red mustang swung back and forth behind them, trying to pass. "Shut up!" She screamed over her shoulder and threw her arm out the window, shooting it the bird.

The car pushed around them and disappeared in a blur of red.

"Fucker!" She screamed at the retreating bumper. She turned to the wide-eyed young man sitting beside her and smiled sweetly. "Ah'm sorry, Joe. Were you going to ask me something?"

X

"I'm gonna be sick!" Jean Paul slapped his hand over his mouth and scrambled to roll down the window of his friend's sports car. "You've got to slow down, _mon ami_, before you kill us all!" He stared pointedly at the white knuckles peering back at him from his armrest.

"Relax, JP. You are being such a _fille_!" Remy weaved his Mustang in and out of traffic, smiling in triumph at every close call. "You'd t'ink what wit' all dat hero travel you do, you could handle a li'l free-way drivin'."

The Canadian quirked an eyebrow and then winced as Remy slammed on the brakes. "_Mon Dieu!_ Remy, _quel l'enfer faites-vous_?" (What the hell are you doing?) He grabbed the door with his free hand, ready to catapult into the cement guards on the side of the road.

"Relax, _mon ami_. _Je n'ai pas voulu finir par dans le siège arrière de cette voiture de la grandmère._" (I did not want to end up in the backseat of this grandma's car.) He gestured to the car in front of them. "Why do dey even let people like dat get a driver's license?"

JP narrowed his eyes and looked pointedly at the speedometer. "A second ago you were going 120 miles per hour."

"Point?"

He patted the driver on the shoulder. "Stay with me here, Remy-kins. Once upon a time, there was a government. This government decided important things like…speed limits…in order to help keep normal people—_moi_--safe from crazy people--_vous_. They picked how fast they thought cars should go. They made white signs with large numbers and put them up all around the nation. Oh, look," he said feigning excitement, "there's one now. Well, look at that! It has a giant 75 on it!"

Remy rolled his eyes. "I cain't take it no more!" He slammed his fist into his horn. A hand flew out of the driver's side window waving him on with one finger. He chuckled and pulled on the wheel; whizzing past the offending car, he blew kisses at the driver. "Chienne (Bitch)." Turning back to a slightly green JP, he grinned. "So, 'xactly what's ol' baldy gonna have me teach?"

"_L'aide de dieu nous_ (God help us), if it's Driver's Ed."

X

The Xavier Institute was housed in a sprawling mansion on a 10-acre parcel of land. The mansion, with all of its gothic style designs, impressively stood at the end of a brick driveway. A detached garage stood toward the back of the school, neatly tucked away from the eyes of those merely visiting. Jean Paul pointed down the straight arm of brick that plowed away from the U-shaped driveway.

"_Vous pouvez garer en bas là-bas._ (You can park down there.)"

Remy loudly exhaled and steered the Mustang down the path. His heart was wildly pumping and he could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins; fight or flight mode was beginning to take over. He had made a commitment to stay at Xavier's for a year and a half. The idea of staying in one place for that long was starting to affect him. Negatively. He swallowed and began chewing on his lips.

"_Etes-vous bon?_ (Are you okay?)" JP laid his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Remy?"

Long brown hair shook violently. "Peachy." He shoved the Mustang into park and pushed the door open. Grumbling, "Let's get this over wit'," he grabbed several bags from the back of his car and followed an amused looking JP up the footpath to the mansion's kitchen door.

"I don' even warrant usin' de front door, _non_?"

JP smirked. "You know how much I like the back door."

Remy rolled his eyes. "You are one sick puppy."

Before the former could retort appropriately, a silver-haired tornado swept into the room, violently knocking Remy off his feet and attaching itself to his chest. "Remy!" Remy's eyes deadlocked Ororo's and she snaked her arms around his head. She smiled slightly before kissing him squarely on the mouth. A second later, her eyes widened and she pulled away from him, a perfectly manicured hand wiping her mouth in disgust. "Asshole!"

He grinned unabashedly. "What? Like you weren't t'inkin' it?"

She offered him a hand and helped him to his feet. "You're such a jerk."

"Charmed you, did he?" JP leaned against a counter, arms crossed over his chest, a sad look on his face. "Why do you waste your time like that, Rem? You wouldn't even have to charm me." He winked at a smiling Ororo.

The younger man snorted. "I know. I'm usin' all'a my charm to repel you. An' it still ain't enough."

Ororo chuckled and grabbed one of Remy's many bags. "You will like it here, my friend. It's changed a little since you were in school. Besides, there will be…other opportunities available to you as well."

He grimaced. "De X-Men?"

JP shook his head. "No, not for you. We were thinking more along the lines of la trine duty."

"Very funny. Keep dis up an' you won' git de present I brung f'r ya."

JP squealed with a roll of his eyes. "You are so stereo-typin' me."

Ororo nodded her head toward the door. "This way, boys. Let's show Remy to his room and give him time to case the mansion before the faculty meeting." She set the bag down and dug into the inner pocket of her jacket. "Here. Before I forget." She shoved a mess of papers toward her friend.

Unfolding them, he cocked his head and favored her with a Cheshire cat smile. "Aww, _chére_, you remembered?"

JP raised an eyebrow. "Blueprints of the mansion? Really, 'Ro?"

"Stormy knows de way t' _mon coeur_."

X

"Pardon?"

He was smiling at her. "Do you want to go out some time?" he repeated the question and leaned back in his seat, an expectant look on his face.

Swallowing, Rogue considered him. He was handsome: silvery hair swung past his shoulders and framed his square jaw; he was tall with the broad shoulders and thick neck muscles of a football player. And she was attracted to him. On one hand, she wanted nothing more than to surrender her heart to him. He smiled like he meant every innuendo that passed his lips; and the thought that, maybe, this time, she would get it right, was extremely enticing. However, that gnawing feeling of circumstance grounded her in pessimism.

He would, inevitably, succumb to the need of physical touch, and that meant another broken heart. Not that she would blame him for that weakness, she reminded herself, especially since she longed to feel the very same thing. But…she was attracted to him…maybe…

He cleared his throat and she started.

"Sorry. I was just wondering if I should be worried." He flashed a weak smile. "Promise I'm not some psychopath who asks girls out the first time I see them. I usually wait until the second," he added with a tight smile.

She turned the car down a narrow street and relief flooded her system. Bleached brick sidewalks stood out from the curb and chased by each gated residence. Joseph's eyes widened as they passed one mansion after another. She felt her eyes crinkle at their edges; she knew the feeling of awe he was experiencing, the first time she had seen Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, she had been speechless.

"Wow," he mumbled.

She was thankful for the distraction. "Yeah, Ah know."

The street ended in a culvert, but instead of sweeping back around, Rogue steered down the brick offshoot and stopped in front of an electric gate. A security terminal was housed in a brick structure to her left. Rolling down her window, she quickly punched in her access code. The gate opened. She steered the car to the back of the mansion.

"Listen, Joe," she breathed suddenly, sliding the car into the garage. "Ah just came out of a relationship so Ah'm a little jaded. But," his head perked up, "Ah think ya seem like a nice guy, so Ah'll go out on _a_ date with you." She felt the tension in her stomach lift slightly.

He grinned. "What if you decide that I'm a super nice guy? Do I get two dates with you then?"

She chuckled. "We'll see."

"Leaving it up to fate, huh?" He winked at her. "I can live with that." He opened his door, grabbing a suitcase from the backseat.

She nodded and pushed her door open. It stopped mid-swing. "Damn it!"

Joe peered down at her. "What's wrong?"

A sick feeling sunk in her stomach. She squeezed out of her car and inspected the red Mustang. There wasn't a scratch on it, but she felt an overwhelming sense of dèjá vu settle on her shoulders. It couldn't possibly... No. Thousands of people owned the domestic automobile. It was just a coincidence. She glanced up and saw Joe's piercing gaze watching her. She forced a smile. "Damn mustangs keep following me around today." He grinned and finished gathering his things.

"Coming Rogue?"

She spared the sports car one more look before leading Joe to the mansion's backdoor.

* * *

There! I hope you like it! My editor (thanks Lana!) made me fix a few things before I could post it. I really appreciate the reviews that I've gotten: ColossusR, N.M.C.L., Chica De Los Ojos Cafe, pashtess, ishandahalf, Kerrilea. I love getting input, so please continue to share your ideas and takes on my story! 


	5. Chapter 5

Do not own characters: they belong to Marvel. Don't own the lyrics: they belong to Maroon 5.

Chapter 5

_**Is there anyone out there cause it's getting harder and harder to breathe**_

**---Maroon 5, Harder to breathe**

The faculty room was a large carpeted room with dark wood paneling and expensive paintings covering the walls. Large potted plants stood like sentries beside the windows that ran from the ceiling to the floor. An oblong table with a cream colored runner sat in the middle of the room with leather back swivel chairs around its perimeter.

Remy let out a low whistle when he entered. "Nice digs." One thing Xavier never failed to impress him with was his taste in interior design.

A bald man in a wheelchair was seated at the head of the table. He smiled and maneuvered his chair toward him. "Remy Lebeau." He held out his hand.

"Professor Xavier." The young man took the hand and shook it warmly. "Ain't seen you in a while."

"You are always welcome here, Remy." He turned his chair back toward the table. "I must admit I was…surprised…to hear from you." He smiled. "We all were."

"Scott shit a brick, huh?"

A low chuckle, "That's one way of putting it." Xavier folded his hands in his lap. "So you want to teach? May I inquire as to why?"

He shrugged. "Stormy and JP suggested it a while back."

"Yes. They've been worried about you. Especially after the…incident."

"Yeah, well." He looked around the room, concentrating on the framed works of art covering the walls. "Gotta say, Prof., I di'n't expect ya t' take me on."

"You are a former student, Remy. Despite your…business interests…" Remy snorted at this, "you were always an exemplary young man. Perhaps, you can even think of joining the X-Men again? We could use you."

"_Nous verrons_. (We'll see.)" He pulled out a chair and slid onto the leather. "So, Prof.? What 'xactly 'm I gonna be teachin'?"

The smile was slow and deliberate and sent the heebie-jeebies right through Remy's spine. "You'll be co-teaching three classes: French, drama, and art appreciation."

X

Joseph was a charmer. Rogue shyly smiled at him as they rode the elevator to the third floor of the mansion. She was to show him to his room, make sure he got settled, and then escort him to the faculty conference room where the professor would be making all of the appropriate introductions. She felt his eyes on her and blushed outwardly.

"You're cute…when you blush." He was very close, almost tickling her ear with his words.

She inched away from him warily. "Joe, Ah—Ah think you oughta know somethin' 'fore we go on this date."

He smirked at her, blue eyes raking over her body. She couldn't help but jut her hip out a little more and look at him from under heavy eyelids. "The thing is…my mutation's pretty severe."

He stopped at that, an eyebrow hitched up with curiosity.

"See, Ah cain't make skin to skin contact. That's why Ah'm wearin' these stupid gloves."

"What happens if you do?"

"Ah absorb your psyche—your memories, your powers, everything."

"You can't control it?"

She smiled and looked at her feet. "Ah'm workin' on it. Ah almost got it."

He smiled. "Good. 'Cause I'm really going to want to be able to kiss you after our first date."

She turned away, blushing fiercely.

X

The conference room had received a bit of a face-lift in the two hours since his meeting with the Professor. Thick bouquets of exotic flowers were arranged in decorative pots and stood at every corner; their perfume permeated the air. A 'Welcome' banner ran the width of the room and dipped down toward the middle of the floor. The table was laden with heaping platters of food, each dish set on silver serving trays. His mouth watered at the sight of golden-brown fried chicken, spicy shrimp gumbo, baked potatoes the size of his out-stretched hand, and…oh gawd…was that a devil's food cake? He glanced around the room before giving in to temptation and pinching a teeny bite from the edge.

He felt his eyes roll to the back of his head as he let the chocolate swirl on his tongue. He moved away from the food, ignoring the protesting from his stomach. There would be time to eat later; first he needed to follow some simple self-preservation guidelines, namely, people watching. Settling into a chair near the farthest corner from the door, he ignored the overpowering scent of jasmine and pushed his sunglasses firmly into place, ready to begin the show.

A _femme_ with dark spiky hair and almond shaped eyes was bouncing around the room pouring drinks from what looked like a bottle of champagne. She approached him, a lopsided smile plastered across her nymph-like face. "Hi." She pushed the bottle forward. "Want some bubbly?"

An amused grin spread across his lips; she was trying to flirt with him. He held up his hands helplessly. "Don' got no glass."

She turned red. "Oh! I—uh—" she looked around the room before striding over to the table and grabbing a plastic cup from its edge. Returning, she offered him a sheepish smile. "I know—pretty classy, huh? Champagne in a plastic cup?" She wrinkled her nose. "I sound totally lame."

He stood, taking the cup and bottle from her hands and moved so that he was less than a foot away from her. He poured the fizzing liquid, only paying it half a mind as he felt her breath catch at his closeness. When it had reached the top, he handed her the bottle. "Merci," he whispered, smiling at her sharp intake of breath. "_Quel est votre nom, petit l'un?_ (What is your name, little one?)"

"Huh?" His lips entranced her.

A smile, then, "Wha's your name?"

"Oh! Jubilee."

"_C'est très agréable pour vous rencontrer, le Jubilé_. _Mon nom est Remy Lebeau_. (It is very nice to meet you, Jubilee. My name is Remy Lebeau.)"

She smiled.

"Hey! Firecracker! Bring some o' that liquor over here!" A short man with dark, wild hair and a perpetual snarl waved her over. "If I'm gonna be here, I'm gonna be drunk!"

Jubilee reluctantly turned away. "Chill out, Logan!" She hissed, stalking toward the older man. "An' it's not 'liquor', it's champagne."

"Does it have alcohol in it?"

"Well…yeah…"

"Then it'll do." He grabbed the bottle from her and poured its contents into a glass. "What were you doin' over there, anyway?" He didn't bother to lower his voice; Remy smirked.

Knowing what was coming next, he decided to find a new person to observe. His eyes swept the room and he saluted Scott, who shook his head and then walked toward him. He offered his hand and Remy took it. "Gambit."

"Cyke."

"Bastard."

"Asshole."

"So you're back?"

"For now."

"Good."

"Missed you too."

"Sorry about…Bella."

"Yeah. Jean, too."

"Yeah."

"Things've changed."

"Lots of new people."

"Any cute ones?"

Scott chuckled. "Some."

"Any free ones?"

"Even less."

"Damn."

"Yeah."

"See ya 'round, Scott."

"You too, Remy."

His eyes fell on the table and he licked his lips before sidling up to it. It'd be easier to observe everyone from the safety of a force field of food, he decided, and set to piling fried chicken on his plate. He stabbed a potato and filled it with butter and sour cream before depositing it next to his chicken. As much as he appreciated the gumbo, he decided to save it for later, there was something much more important waiting for him. He eyed the cake with lust in his eyes and grabbed for the cake server; his hand wrapped around something bony and silky.

"Hey!"

He jerked in surprise. Attached to the platinum server was a gloved hand. He looked up. Deep green eyes set in pale porcelain skin stared back at him. He felt his hand tingle and quickly released his hold. "Sorry," he mumbled, wiping it on his leg.

She smiled, shaking her head at him. Her russet curls were pulled back into a ponytail, but her bangs hung free, framing her face in pure white. "It's okay. Ah wasn't payin' no attention, either."

He perked up. "Where you from?"

"Mississippi. You?"

"Louisiana." He pointed at the cake. "You havin' some of dat?"

"Sure am. You want some too?" When he nodded, she cut a slice and set it on his plate then did the same for herself. "You must be one of the new teachers. I'm Rogue."

"Rogue, huh?" He cocked an eyebrow. "I'm Remy." He took a bite of his cake as he studied her. "You a teacher?"

"Sure am." She shifted her weight and glanced toward the front of the room. "Well, it was nice meetin' ya." She smiled again and walked over to where a man with long, silver hair was talking to Hank.

"Yeah, you too." He caught Jubilee's eye and winked at her. She turned pink.

"Isn't she a bit too young for you, luv?"

He glanced up. "Well, hel-lo." His cake completely forgotten, "Can I help you?"

Violet eyes fluttered back. "Just saw you over here and thought I'd make introductions. I'm Betsy." She offered a perfectly manicured hand. He chuckled then pressed a kiss into her wrist. He felt her pulse quicken.

"So, tell me, Betts," his voice was low and husky, "you a teacher?"

X

There was a piece of devil's food cake with her name on it. She had been eyeing the chocolaty dessert since entering the room. She was still staring at it when Joe tapped her on the shoulder.

"Rogue?"

"Huh?" She gave him a blank look.

An easy grin split over his face. "I was wondering if I could meet Dr. McCoy? I've read some of his articles on genetics. They're fascinating."

"Oh. Yeah, sure." Man that cake'd probably melt on her tongue. She felt another tap. "Huh?"

"I need you to point me in the right direction."

"Oh! Right."

Dr. McCoy, or Hank, as he was affectionately called, was the school's doctor as well as a leading expert in the field of mutant genetics. Hank had been blessed with inhuman agility and a super high IQ. The only clue to his mutantism was his oversized hands and feet. Despite the relative ease he had blending in with non-mutants, Hank had always felt self-conscious about his physical anomalies. One day he decided to simply fix the problem.

Locking himself in his laboratory, he had spent the better part of two weeks creating an anti-mutant serum designed to connect to a mutant's DNA and retrain it to mimic that of a normal human. The drug should have changed his awkward form into that of a regular human's. Apparently, God had different plans.

Instead of adjusting his form to be more human, the serum sent Hank's body down a completely different path. His hands and feet didn't change; however, a thick coat of blue fur covered his body. Even his face—ever kind and understanding—took on a more beastlike appearance. It had been quite a blow to his vanity and he refused to have his picture published with his journal articles.

Something Rogue had momentarily forgot. She blamed it on lack of chocolate.

She tapped Hank on his shoulder and smiled as his clear blue eyes turned to greet her. "Hank," she snuck a quick glance at Joe. To his credit, he didn't seem even the slightest bit startled by the shaggy blue creature standing before him. "This is Joseph. He'll be teaching physics."

"Dr. McCoy," Joseph shoved his hand forward, stars sparkling in his eyes. "I am a _huge_ fan of your research. It's so—insightful."

Hank blinked, a smile lit up his face. "Well, thank you—"

"Joseph. I'm the new physics teacher." He nearly fell over himself; Rogue raised an eyebrow.

"Ah, yes." Hank clapped him on the back, the promise of a mathematic or scientific conversation capturing his full attention. "I've heard about you. So tell me, why physics?"

That cake winked at her. She was sure of it.

She excused herself from what she knew was turning into a mind-numbing conversation about quadrants, statistics, and—oh, who cared what else—and snuck up to the table. She licked her lips and reached for a plate and the cake server.

A hand clamped down over hers.

"Hey!" She scowled; annoyed that someone had the gall to grab her. Didn't they know--?

Dark sunglasses bore through her. She dropped her eyes slightly, tracing a pair of soft lips amidst the light peppering of a five o'clock shadow. Her tongue felt swollen and she had to swallow.

He stared at her a moment before snatching his hand away and rubbing it down the leg of his jeans. "Sorry." She could still felt the heat of his skin through her silk glove.

She shook her head, her eyes taking in the angles of his face. "It's okay. Ah wasn't payin' no attention, either."

"Where you from?"

She caught her breath. "Mississippi. You?"

"Louisiana." He pointed at the cake. "You havin' some of dat?"

"Sure am. You want some too?" He nodded and she cut a slice for him before cutting one for herself. "You must be one of the new teachers. I'm Rogue."

"Rogue, huh?" He seemed to weigh the truth of her statement. "I'm Remy." He swallowed a chunk of his cake. "You a teacher?"

"Sure am." Her tongue still felt swollen and the feeling was slowly moving into her lungs. "Well, it was nice meetin' ya." She offered a tight smile and turned toward Joseph and Hank. Her chest felt like it was going to explode.

"Yeah, you too."

She wasn't very hungry anymore.

"_Bonjour_, Rogue!" JP's singsong voice startled her and he waved her over. "Ooh! Are you going to eat that?" He stared pointedly at her plate.

"Let her eat her cake, JP," Ororo shook her head. "Go get your own."

"No, it's okay," Rogue pushed the plate forward, wincing as JP snatched it up and devoured a large forkful. "Ah'm not as hungry as Ah thought." She snuck a glance at the table; the young man was whispering to a purple-haired girl.

"I see you've met our Remy." Ororo smiled.

She nodded. "Yeah."

"What did you think?"

Ignoring the chocolate shower that had accompanied the question, she shrugged. "He seems okay."

"Okay?"

She nodded. Ororo tried to hide her smile behind a straw.

"Okay?" JP repeated. "I don't think I've ever heard a _fille _say that about Remy. But it's better that you don't get too close, he's insane!"

"JP, stop," the chocolate-skinned mutant chastised gently. "He is not. He's just a little over-zealous."

He gave her a doubtful look. "He tried to kill me."

"JP!"

"He did!" He turned his full attention to Rogue. "We were on the freeway—"

"JP!"

"—he was weaving in and out of traffic like a crazy person."

Rogue glanced out of the corner of her eye. The space beside the table was vacant; she could breathe again.

"Ororo, I am telling you," he joked, "he's a nut!"

Her silver locks swung back and forth. "You're the one who got in the car with him."

"He _wanted_ a Harley! I had to beg him to upgrade to a sports car!" He stared at Rogue. "Not that I would have _minded_ a Harley, mind you, but I'm rather attached to life."

Ororo caught Rogue's eye and shook her head.

"Too bad they didn't have tanks." He complained.

"Don't be a drama queen. What did he get? A Porsche?"

"No, a mustang. A bright red, fire engine, candy apple mustang."

Her lungs collapsed.

"You okay, Rogue?"

_Shit!_ She felt her lips set in a straight line. "Super."

* * *

Uh-oh. Damn JP and his diarrhea of the mouth. Well, now she knows...but why can't she breathe around him? Maybe she's allergic to his cologne. And what will that allergy do to Joe? And where did Remy disappear to? He sure seemed interested in that purple bombshell...hhmmm...are there any closets in the boardroom? Personally, I'm more concerned about all of that chocolate going to waste... 

Thanks for the reviews! Please keep them coming! I was super excited to see that some people added this as a favorite! That made me feel so awesome! Thank you!


	6. Chapter 6

Still don't own anything.

Chapter 6

**Superman or Green Lantern ain't got a-nothin' on me**

**---Donovan, Sunshine Superman**

Her head ached. That was the _last_ time she tried _anything_ that came out of a bottle Jubilee was carrying around. Champagne, her ass. She gritted her teeth before rolling to her back and piling her pillows on her face. With any luck, she'd suffocate, a seemingly better way to go than by the blunt-force trauma from the jackhammer living in her head.

Letting out an exasperated breath, she risked a peek at her alarm clock. Giant red numbers stabbed back. She rubbed her eyes. The front of her brain began to tickle. It felt as though someone had flipped open her head and was dusting it with a feather. She pulled the pillows down harder hoping that she could stop what was sure to follow.

_Rogue? _No such luck.

_Yes? _Just fucking great.

_Word to the wise: when a telepath is conversing with you inside your head, he can hear all of your inner-speak._

_Oh. Right. Sorry._

_Did you enjoy the party last night?_

_What the hell did Jubilee give me?_

_Good. _She couldn't have seen the amused half-smile better if she'd been standing right in front of him. _I'm sorry to bother you so early on one of your last days off, but it is imperative that I speak with you. Could you meet me in my office in thirty minutes?_

She groaned. _Thirty minutes?_

_Good. I'll see you then._

The tickling subsided and she peeled away her fortress of pillows, a hand rubbing down her face. She kicked the covers away and winced as the cold air kissed her moist body. She needed a shower. Gathering her robe from the foot of her bed, she tiptoed to the bathroom, well aware of the light snoring from the other side of the room. The last thing she needed was a cranky roommate on her hands.

She leaned into the pulsating stream of water, letting it soak her hair and run down her back. The heat pushed away the air's chill and enveloped her in its steamy embrace. Sighing, she allowed herself a final rinse before turning off the water and emerging from behind the glass door.

Condensation had formed over the mirror and she wiped it away with her palm. Her reflection stared back and she watched as her pink lips curled. She looked like a drowned rat. Hair slicked down her neck and shoulders, an express route for the water to travel down before pooling in the spaces between her clavicles.

Leaving the bathroom, she checked the clock. There'd be no time to blow-dry her hair, let alone straighten it. She ran her fingers through it, already feeling the curls rising to greet the colder air. If he'd wanted her to look more professional, then he should have given her more time, she reasoned, pushing down the fingers of her gloves before pulling on a pair of worn jeans and a school sweatshirt. She slipped on a pair of flip-flops and quickly let herself into the hall.

What Xavier could possibly want with her was beyond her realm of reasoning. She'd received satisfactory scores on her evaluation. Her students had tested well. Perhaps it had nothing to do with school? Perhaps he had pressing X-Men business to discuss with her? But then why was she the only one roaming the halls?

She let out an uneasy breath before rapping against the door to his office. She heard a shuffling of papers, a closing of drawers, and then, a thick British accent, "Come in."

She pushed the door open and her eyes immediately fell on him. He was standing, his back to her, as he looked out the window to the gardens. His head cocked in her direction and she caught the black metal frame of a pair of sunglasses. Her hands went to her hair, unconsciously raking through the curls before she tucked her thumbs into her front pockets.

"Rogue?"

She started, her head snapping toward the front of the room to where Professor Xavier sat behind his massive desk. "Uh, yeah?"

He smiled and held out his hand toward the young man. The latter had finally turned from the window and was leaning against the wall, his expression indifferent. "This is Remy Lebeau. He is a former student. Remy, this is Rogue. She is one of our talented teachers." Remy tipped his head. She did the same.

"Did you two get to meet during last night's festivities?" He smiled as they nodded their reply. "Good. This semester is going to be a bit different from the last one. I've had the remarkable idea to lighten several teachers' workloads by encouraging teaching teams. Each class will have the benefit of two teachers. Think of the advantage for the students! Besides, I believe that this will be a positive way to foster professional relationships among our old and new staff members."

There was a shake of her head as her brow furrowed in confusion. "Pardon?"

X

_So…_this_ is the fucker in the mustang, huh? That just about figures. Not only can the asshole not drive…he's never taught anything in his life that didn't end with him taking off at two in the morning. And _Ah'm _stuck with him…great…just fuckin' great._ She rolled her eyes for probably not the last time of the day and sucked in a breath through her teeth.

"Somet'in' wrong, _p'tite_?" His voice was even beginning to grate on her nerves.

"Look, Mr. Lebeau, we've got one day before third quarter begins and we still don't have a decent lesson plan!" She pointed to the paper in front of her for emphasis. "Ah still got two other classes to plan for an' Ah ain't even met my new co-teachers for those yet! Please let's try to git this finished in an hour!" She added a silent, _why couldn't you be Joseph?_

Remy's ears pricked. "What ot'er classes you teachin', _chére_?"

She chose to ignore his term of endearment…for now. "B'sides French? Ah got drama an' art appreciation…Oh, no, why are you smilin' like that?"

"_Bonjour, Mademoiselle_ Rogue, _je suis votre partenaire_. (Hello, Miss Rouge, I am your partner.)" He swept down in a dramatic bow, his mouth curving into an irritating smile. "Don' worry, Roguey, it'll be fun."

She swallowed the urge to hit him over the head with her French I teacher's edition and focused a pair of sharp green eyes on him instead. "_You_ are my co-teacher for all three of my subjects? Have you ever even taught before?"

"How hard can it be?" He shrugged and flipped through his guide. "What say we add a cooking section to de class? Dey could learn to prepare dif'rent meals…good way to learn more 'bout de culture, _ouí_?" He stared at her through dark sunglasses.

She studied him for a second. "Yeah…okay…that sounds like a reasonable idea." She scratched 'cooking experience' into the square under Friday. "You gonna handle that particular session?"

He smiled, it was slow and seemed to light up his whole face. She found herself starting to smile as well. "Yeah, _p'tite_, I can handle dat class."

X

Katherine Pryde, or Kitty, as her friends called her, hid a smile behind her hand as she listened to her best friend and roommate's rant.

"Ah swear, Kit, it's like he thinks he's James freakin' Dean!" She propped herself up on her pillow and waved a hand at the brunette. "Ah mean, what's with the sunglasses? We're inside, stupid." She raised an eyebrow and jumped for Kitty's hand. "Oh, _mon cherie, vous êtes beau. Je vous veux. J'ai besoin de vous._" She pretended to plant a kiss on her knuckles. "It's disgustin'."

"What does that even mean?" Her eyes sparkled with amusement.

"You are beautiful. Ah want you. Ah need you."

"Did he…say that to you?"

Rogue raised an eyebrow. "Ya've got that weird look on your face. You know, the one where you think you know somethin' but really you couldn't be any more off base?"

She held her hands up. "It's an honest question!" Her eyes glazed over again and she leaned in conspiratorially. "Did he?" The smile pushed Rogue over the edge.

"NO!"

Kitty pouted. "Well, I think he's sort of…"

"Annoying?"

"No…"

"Obnoxious?"

"No! He's handsome." She shrugged one shoulder and looked at her friend. "Don't you think he's handsome?"

Rogue stopped. She wouldn't consider Remy Lebeau. All she needed to think about was Joseph. He was smart and nice and sweet and…it didn't matter. She thought about his wish to kiss her on their first date and smiled. As far as she was concerned, the Cajun had nothing on her white knight. "Hadn't really thought about him."

X

"Here's de way it works. I pass _deux_ cards t' ev'ryone. Den I slowly turn over _cinq_ more. Now, in between dese, you bet or stay. After I done laid out all of dem, you look at de _deux_ cards you gots in your hand. Den you pick _cinq_ of dem dat you want t' use for yer cards. _Comprendre_?"

Three pairs of eyes blinked at him from across the table. The oldest girl's brow furrowed. "Mr. Remy?"

"_Ouí, p'tite?_"

"Can't we just play 'Go Fish' again?"

He deflated. "Sure." He flipped the cards smoothly to each child. "Anyone got any sevens?"

Three voices chorused happily. "Go Fish!"

"Don't tell me? Your attempt to corrupt the youngest ones backfired?"

Remy glanced up. "So it would seem, Cyke, but you know me…ever hopeful. Whatcha want?"

"Kids? Mr. Remy an' I have to talk…"

"Ooooooh! You're in troooouuuublllle!" They chorused again, giving Remy the sneaky feeling that perhaps they'd been hustling him during Go Fish.

They ran off, leaving the young man to gather his cards before stuffing them into the pocket of his coat. "You know what, _homme_? I t'ink dey stacked my deck!"

Scott considered it. "Well, they are telepathic. It's entirely possible."

"Cheatin' kids," came the mumble. He ran his hands through the tangled mop of brown hair and eyed the clean-shaven man in front of him. Rubbing his fingers across the stubble on his face self-consciously, he asked, "What's up?"

X

The Danger Room was a vast space in the sub-levels below the mansion. It had been created to hone the X-Men's mutant abilities and prepare them for the over-sized task of protecting baseline humans from psychotic mutants…or mutants from psychotic humans…which ever the job called for. The space was entirely made out of an extremely heavy plastic polymer and was run by a mega-computer system. The system allowed for holographic projections that seemed even "realer than the real thing," according to the young Chinese-American woman currently manning the controls.

"Jubilee, this is…"

"Remy Lebeau," her voice came out in a rushed whisper and she eagerly gripped the young man's hand. Her brown eyes twinkled. "Met you at the faculty meeting last night."

He grinned, and brought her hand to his lips. "Nice to meet you, Jubes…again." He smirked as a deep blush rolled across her cheeks.

"Remy," Scott warned. "Go suit up. I want you to run this program by yourself and then we'll switch to a partner sequence."

X

He stood in the middle of a field. Wind whistled violently about him, whipping his hair into his face. His high cheekbones and chiseled features made him supremely easy to look at. The lean muscles rippling under the black leather of his uniform didn't hurt either. Form-fitting attire covered him from his neck down to his calf-high black boots and left very little to the imagination. He had thrown his trench coat over it just to irritate Scott. He grinned and pulled off the sunglasses. The overhead lights stabbed into his eyes, but he forced them wide. He hated wearing glasses; it felt like he was hiding a true portion of himself, but his eyes sometimes had less than desirable results.

They were the only giveaway to his mutant heritage. Instead of the normal run of the mill browns, blues, and greens, his eyes were red. In fact they were more than red, they were red on a sea of black. The problem with that anomaly was that people tended to freak when they saw them: calling him a demon or other such nonsense. He considered disrupting the electrons in his sunglasses and letting them explode but thought better of it. He may be in a mutant sanctuary, but sometimes the ones with problems were the first to cry 'witch'.

His thoughts switched to the green-eyed _fille_ Xavier had stuck him with. No doubt she'd be one of those to freak out about his little physical abnormality. He wondered about her mutation. Maybe she was a head-case like the professor? But then what was up with the gloves? Not that it was too weird; he chose to wear them most of the time. 'Course they were considered uniform in his line of work. Well, there were lots of ways to find out about people. He'd just have to be sneaky. Besides, as high-tech an operation as the school was, there was one glitch: everyone trusted everyone else.

"Ready?" Scott's voice broke into his thoughts and echoed across the wide expanse of…wheat?

"Yee-haw."

"Just checking," He looked out the booth and saw that a crowd of wild-eyed women had formed in front of the observation windows. They seemed to be…panting? "I wasn't sure if you were done posing for your next magazine spread."

"Is dat jealousy I hear? Now don' go gittin' you're panties in a wad, you'll always be de one fer me." He blew kisses toward the booth. "Jus' don' go tellin' JP, you know what a _fille_ he can be!" He jumped out of the way of a flash of lightning. "Well, looky here. If'n it ain't Stormy's twin!"

Jubilee sighed as she watched Remy jump around her screen. "He's so ho-ot!" She breathed before casting a glance at her leader. "Does he have a girlfriend?"

Scott raised an eyebrow at her. "_Et tu_, Jubilee?"

* * *

Thanks for the reveiws! And thanks for making my story one of your favorites! I hope that it continues to be something that you like. I know the Go Fish thing has been done before, but I was just trying to establish Remy as someone who really does care about the kids. After all, even if teaching's not hiscup of tea, he'd have to have a sense of obligation for other mutants and their situations before he'd even think about returning to the Institute. Besides, sometimes the kids are the only ones who are willing to play... 

Thanks to ishandahalf, Alecto's Muse, Chica De Los Ojos Cafe, FluidDegree, Spicy Sweet, and theblondeone07 for reviewing. I appreciate it lots!


	7. Chapter 7

Still don't own anything. But I've got my fingers crossed...

Chapter 7

**I've built walls,  
A fortress deep and mighty**

**---Simon & Garfunkel, I am a rock**

The sun was already plunging past the horizon. Mauves, pinks, and purples stretched out wide from the doused ball of light and caressed the darkening sky with the eagerness of a lusty lover. Despite a surge of jealousy for the fading light's boldness, she continued to watch the last beams tickle at the stars. She felt strangely at peace.

The roof had long been her hidey-hole away from the rest of the world. Its eaves and hangings, coupled with its many leveled slopes, gave the illusion of isolation; sometimes the illusion had to count for something, because if there was one thing that there was precious little of at the Xavier Institute, it was alone time. She would have laughed at the irony had it not been so bitter.

Her entire adult life had been lived alone in some way or another. Sure, she had friends. Sure, she went out on dates; but no matter how close she got to someone, there was always that **line**, the one that she dared not cross for fear of the consequences. The line was always the same, though sometimes, it took on different forms: her powers, her clothes, her trust—her inability to get too close. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if her powers were just an excuse to be able to keep people at bay. Would she have reacted to closeness the same way if she had never been a mutant?

She wondered about Joseph. Would she even give him a real chance to get close? Probably not, but she wasn't the only one limiting the intimacy of their relationship. For all his flirting and whispering and laughing at her blushes, he had yet to try to hold her hand. Rolling her fingers into her palm, she thought about the night of the faculty party and how warm Remy's grip had been against her silk-covered skin. Her hand tingled and a slow chill crawled through her body.

A scuffing noise pulled her out of her reverie and she shifted her position toward the sound. Her eyes were met with two burning embers. She stuffed down the uneasiness she felt. "Who's there?"

For a long second she figured she must have imagined the fiery circles or mistaken them for something more than mere lightning bugs (which seemed improbable considering it was January) but they froze in place and twinkled at her; her stomach flip-flopped. Suddenly they were gone and she was reminded of jack-o-lanterns on a windy night.

"_Je suis desole_. (I'm sorry.) I din't know anyone was up here. T'ought I'd get a li'l quiet time 'fore tomorrow." He was standing very close to her, hands in his coat pockets, and sunglasses shading his eyes.

She smiled wryly. "Welcome to the Xavier Institute, check your solitude at the door."

He chuckled and a hushed, "Ain't dat de truth," followed. "Well, I reckon I'll go find me a different slope." He moved away from her but she grabbed his arm.

If he was surprised, he didn't react to it. She, on the other hand, was floored and instantly dropped his arm, stammering. "S-sorry. Don't know what made me do that…Ah don't usually just grab people."

He contemplated her for a moment before shaking his head. "Why you apologizin'? It's no big deal. You just wanted me to stop."

"Yeah, well…it sort of is a big deal."

"Why? 'Cause a your powers?"

She bristled. "Ah didn't tell ya 'bout my powers."

He indicated for her to sit down, when she didn't, he shrugged and planted himself on the roof. She followed, guardedly. "It don' take a rocket scientist t' guess. You're covered from head to toe. You wear gloves all de time…even when you're eating…" he made a disgusted face, "I t'ink you could take 'em off den, ain't no one gon' grab your fork from ya…I've seen de way you eat." He chuckled.

"That don't mean there's anything wrong with my powers."

He shrugged again. "What do you want me to say? Dat I hacked into de school personnel files and read it dere?"

She huffed. "Ah want ya to tell me who told you because it's _my_ business to tell people about them."

He opened his mouth to say something when his eyes went wide. "_Merde_!" He maneuvered to the edge of the roof and gripped it in his hands. Flipping his legs over, he somersaulted into the darkness beneath the rooftop.

She let out a half-shriek and skirted toward the edge herself just as a strong wind thrashed against her. Wisps of hair flew into her eyes and she wiped them away, squinting into the darkness. "What the hell is going on?" Her yell was muffled by the wind.

A figure descended from the sky. All she could do was gape. "'Ro?"

Silvery hair billowed out from her head and flashed under the gentle moonbeams. "Good evening, Rogue. I hope I did not alarm you. I was looking for Remy."

She started to rat on him but thought better of it. "Well, he ain't been 'round here."

Ororo's lips set in a thin line and she scrutinized her young friend's face. "Well, _if_ you see him, please remind him that despite the fact he is one of my best friends, I don't think the professor will be thrilled with him hacking into the computer system. There are some very important—_confidential_—files that he does not need to be seeing." A small smile tugged at her lips. "See you in the morning, Rogue. Classes start at eight o'clock sharp!" She lifted back into the sky on a strong northern breeze.

Rogue hissed through her teeth. "Son of a bitch!"

X

Remy hit the ground like a cat and jumped behind a juniper. No way was he going to catch Stormy's wrath the night before his first official day as a teacher. He watched as a flash of lightning cut across the sky, illuminating the mansion's grounds in an eerie burst of white. He grinned, leaning against the side of the mansion, hands stuffed into his pockets. She was getting better at sneaking up on him. If he hadn't been so aware of everything on that roof, he would've missed the gentle flux in the wind.

He took a deep breath. His nerves were on fire; he'd never fall asleep tonight. The entire mansion was abuzz with first day jitters, which was completely understandable, but it caused his empathy to work over-time so that he was dealing with the emotions of every Cyclops, Storm, and Hairy as well as his own anxiety. Normally he could blot them out, focus on himself, his routine, anything besides the overwhelming tsunami of emotions around him. But sometimes…sometimes…he just couldn't extricate himself from their one-mindedness.

She had been almost refreshing… The annoyance she felt toward him had been…well…sort of _pleasant_. A touch of relief in the middle of a swelling storm. His empathy tingled in the back of his head and a pissed-off feeling stretched across his chest causing him to wince. Someone, somewhere, was none too happy.

X

"What part of 'class starts at eight' confused you?" She stood in his doorway with hands on hips and hair spilling down her back in wild, wet ringlets.

He shifted his pillow and burrowed under the blankets. "Go 'way," he mumbled, his voice still heavy with sleep.

She sucked air through her teeth and stalked into the room, slamming the door closed behind her. A picture fell off his wall. His head rose slightly, but he didn't crawl out of his hole.

"'Go 'way'?" She was next to his bed. Her fingers ached; they were clenched so tightly. "'Go 'way'?" Her voice reached an octave that made his head hurt. "Listen, asshole, Ah don' know who the hell you think you are, but you'd better get your ass outta that bed or so help me—"

"Shut. Up." It wasn't loud, but it was even, and it made her stop in her tracks.

Her chest seized. It felt as if her lungs were on fire, she was so angry. "Excuse me?" Her voice was low, deadly.

He shifted under his covers. A hand groped toward his nightstand and wrapped around a pair of sunglasses before disappearing once more into the safety of his blankets. Seconds later, a space big enough for his face parted and he looked at her, his glasses reflecting her wild-eyed state. "I said, 'Shut. Up.'" He repeated, pushing the downy material under his chin as he tilted it in her direction. "What part of _dat_ confused _you_?"

She narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth but nothing came out. She stood there, opening and closing her mouth like a fish, before her rage finally got the better of her. "Get the fuck out of bed!" She grabbed two handfuls of fleece and yanked.

She went perfectly pink.

He just grinned.

At first, she was frozen, catching flies and staring, unable to generate any coherent plan that might save her further embarrassment. In fact, the only thing she could even think well enough to process was _Ohmigawd._ It took a good long time for her higher brain to register the dilemma.

Remy slept in the nude.

Something, somewhere, scolded her for not having considered the more than slight possibility that he was one of _those_ guys. Another thing, not too far from it, congratulated her on her boldness and asked if she had brought a camera. Yet another thing, just around the corner from the second, found it ironic that out of all the men she'd known over the years, the only one she'd seen naked was the asshole in the red mustang. Irony was a twisted son of a bitch.

Realizing she'd been staring far too long, Rogue scrambled with the covers, now twisted with the imprints of her fingers, and shoved them toward his upturned palms.

"S-s-sorry." Her ears burned. She pressed her damp curls into them.

He shrugged, pulling the covers to his waist and propping himself against the headboard. "Well, I'm 'wake now, anyhow." He rolled his shoulders back; she heard the tiny pops and saw the lean muscle move beneath his skin.

"Ah've—we've—got a class in ten minutes." Her foot caught on his rug and she fell into the door. Cheeks blazing, she pushed it open and spilled into the hallway.

X

He twirled the pen across the knuckle of his thumb before catching it between his fingers in perfect writing position. Smiling triumphantly, he winked at a girl in the first row. She dropped her eyes, pointedly staring at the blank sheet of paper on her desk, and turned red. He grinned.

"Mr. Lebeau."

He rolled his eyes, the agitated sigh curling from his lips before he could stop it. "Ouí?"

"Would you like to add anything?"

_Yeah. Get offa my ass._ "Cain't t'ink o' nuthin'." He checked off his fingers. "Lessee you talked 'bout greetings, how to introduce yourself, how to say goodbye. 'Bout covers de basics f'r de first day, non?" He returned her gaze evenly. "'less ya wan' me t' pronounce 'em right."

Someone snickered. She turned red. Whether it was from embarrassment or pure anger, he wasn't really sure. And he didn't care either. She'd been cutting his balls off at every turn and he was tired of the verbal neutering.

She narrowed her eyes and shot him a murderous look, which he answered with a crooked smile before leaning back in his chair, feet propped on the desk, and fingers locked behind his head. Class was over in five minutes. He supposed she'd kill him then. Good. Bring it on. He wasn't putting up with her demeaning jabs at his lack of qualifications anymore.

"Ah—_we_—" Remy tipped his head, "—want a written translation of two different initial meetings. One in formal and one in the informal. Watch your accent marks and spellings. It's due tomorrow. Class is dismissed."

She stood at the podium in the front of the room, her mouth set in a thin line as she watched the students haphazardly shovel their day's work into open backpacks. He felt a twinge of guilt; he shouldn't have insulted her in front of the class. Now the little buggers knew there was dissension in the ranks. He could practically see the divide and conquer ploy forming in their little brains.

The last student hit the door running.

She sighed, her fingers methodically rubbing circles against her temples, before straightening and gathering her book and notes into her arms. Her eyes stayed low and she moved to the desk, setting her things down to pluck her schoolbag from underneath Remy's legs. He watched her. She chewed her bottom lip and crammed her papers quickly into the canvas satchel then turned on her heel.

His hand shot out, catching her elbow and stopping her silent retreat. "Wait."

She stopped, but he could feel her heat burn through the silky fabric of her blouse. For a second, his grip went weak, but he swallowed and tightened his hold.

"Look," he dropped his voice, "I shouldn't've said dat. I'm sorry."

She nodded, her back still turned to him. "Yeah…well…" she shook her elbow out of his hand. He guessed he hadn't really strengthened his grip at all. She heaved her bag onto her shoulder and started off again.

"Ain't ya gonna 'pologize to me?"

She whirled around to face him, her eyes and mouth wide. "What?"

"For all de crap you been slingin'. Ain't you gonna 'pologize?"

She cocked her head, her eyes narrowing, as she moved toward him. "What're ya talkin' about? Ah ain't said nuthin' to ya."

"What 'bout dat shit dis mornin'?"

"You missed the first two classes 'cuz you were still in bed." Her voice was beginning to rise. "You were still in bed at ten o'clock. Ah had t' wake you up!"

"An' I suppose you had to see me naked…" The edges of his mouth curled cruelly.

Her nostrils flared. "Fuck you, buddy." She snarled, swinging back to the door.

He chuckled as the heel of her hand hit the door with a thwack and she disappeared into the hall. "_Chienne_."

* * *

Oh! Remy sure is being an ass. What will Rogue do? If this is the type of environment they're going to have in their classroom, I think the kids should bail. Perhaps Kurt still has some openings in his German class? I hear the Russian class is really good. 

Thanks to all of you who reviewed: theblondeone07, RG Marie, FluidDegree, ColossusR, sakura5tar, ishandahalf, & Chica De Los Ojos Cafe. I so appreciate all the reviews! They help me to become a better writer, so please, keep sending them my way. Also, thanks for making my story one of your favorites! I really appreciate that! It makes my day!


	8. Chapter 8

Still don't own anything.

Chapter 8

**Maybe I didn't treat you  
Quite as good as I should have  
---Elvis Presley, Always on my Mind**

She stormed down the corridor, her teeth pushing so hard against her bottom lip that she tasted blood. Her heart throbbed in her head; the anger pushing through her body with every heart beat. She should have slapped him. No. She should have decked him. Just balled her hand up and clobbered him in the jaw. That would have wiped that nasty smirk right off his face! She took an unsteady breath, suddenly aware that she had forgotten to breathe. What the hell was Xavier thinking? Why would anyone want that prick near children? He wasn't even fit to be an anonymous sperm donor.

She shifted the canvas strap of her bag before it slipped from her shoulder and then proceeded to walk right into a brick wall.

"Damn it!" She cursed as she lost her balance and landed hard on her rear.

"Rogue!"

She cast her eyes up and, for the first time since she'd gotten up that morning, felt relieved.

"Are you okay? Let me help you up." Joseph stooped down and detached her load from her shoulder before offering his hand and pulling her to her feet. He hooked his arm through the strap. "Which way, m'lady?"

She giggled, catching his arm. "To my quarters, kind sir." She sighed. "Ah'm so glad to see you. My day has sucked."

"Yeah, you'd think that after winter break they'd come in and be normal for a day."

"It wasn't the kids." She shook her head; the anger was threatening to turn to bitterness. "It was my co-teacher."

He looked concerned. "You're co-teacher? What happened?"

"Remy Lebeau happened." She stopped in front of her bedroom door. "He's just—he's—well, to put it nicely…he's an asshole. He was late to class. No, strike that. He didn't even bother to come to the two morning sessions. Do you want to know why? 'Cause he was asleep, that's why! So, Ah go to his room to get his sorry ass outta bed and he—" she was starting to turn pink. She decided not to mention that she saw her co-teacher naked. After all, Joseph was a prospect. "He had to be…wakened…up…" Oh, _gawd_, she was picturing him in her mind. She could feel her temperature rise. "Anyway…then he insulted me in front of the class." She slumped against the door, her hands covering her face. "It was absolutely awful."

Joe's jaw twitched. "I could go talk to him." It was low.

She glanced up. He looked upset. "No, it's okay."

"No. It's not." The book bag landed on the carpet. "Something should be done."

She held up her hand. "No. It's okay. Ah'll go talk to Xavier. Ah'm sure that he'll just move Remy to another teacher. Maybe 'Ro or JP can take him. They're all friends anyway." She smiled slightly. "Thanks for offering though. Ah like that."

He ran his hands through his hair. It was clear that he wasn't thrilled with her plan. He seemed much keener to the idea of handling Remy himself. It was sort of nice to have someone willing to stand up for her, she decided, and put her hand on his arm. He bit at his lip. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

He shook his head. "Okay. But if he keeps bothering you…"

"He won't. Ah'm sure Xavier will take care of things." She licked her lips. "So, Joe? Ah was wonderin'…when are we going to go on that date?"

He brightened. "When do you want to? I'm ready whenever you are. Wait a minute," he narrowed his eyes and crooked a finger at her, "you like that this bothered me, didn't you?"

She grinned, her fingers scratching at the jacket of his suit. "Maybe." She lowered her lids and looked up at him. She heard his breath catch. "It's sorta cute." She reached for her bag. "How 'bout tomorrow night? Unless you don't like to go out on school nights?"

He chuckled. "No, Ms. Rogue. I don't mind going out on school nights at all. How about I come by your room at seven? Does dinner sound okay?"

She fluttered her eyelashes. "Dinner sounds excellent."

He beamed then swept down in a dramatic bow. "Until tomorrow."

She giggled, shaking her head. "See ya then." She watched as he turned away from her and started toward the men's wing. Pushing her door open, she deposited her bag beside her desk and then kicked off her heels. A man had to have invented them, she decided, and took to removing the next obviously man-invented item: pantyhose. She wadded up the nylons and slam-dunked them into her hamper. Her gray wool suit quickly followed and she enjoyed the feeling of having nothing around her skin. It was glorious. Too bad she had to get dressed…well, she didn't have to, but she was pretty sure that Kitty would appreciate the gesture.

Throwing on a pair of sweats and a school t-shirt, she landed in a heap on her bed. The soft cotton sheets were cool against her bare arms. She fought against the whisper of lashes on her cheek. She was almost asleep when she heard a soft knock on her door. She yawned, stretching out her limbs. "Coming."

He was leaning against the doorframe when she opened the door. She narrowed her eyes and pushed it closed, but his hand shot out, wrapping around its side, stopping it. "_Allo, chére. Je sais que vous êtes en le colère contre moi. Je plains que j'ai dit. J'étais un âne complet. J'espère que vous pouvez me pardonner et que nous pouvons nous avancer._ (I know you are mad at me. I am sorry for what I said. I was a complete ass. I hope that you can forgive me and that we can move forward.)"

She rolled her eyes. "_Probablement pas_. (Probably not.)"

"_Pourquoi_? (Why?)"

"_Parce que vous êtes un âne complet_. (Because you are a complete ass.)"

His lips twitched. "Dat so?"

"Hey, you said it first."

His lips bent up. "Ahhh, _oui. Mais je n'ai pas prévu que vous à chaleureusement consent si._ (Ahhh, yes. But I did not expect you to so heartily agree.)"

"_Comment drôle. Je n'ai pas prévu que vous ayez admis vous étiez un âne. C'est les petites surprises dans la vie_. (How funny. I didn't expect you to admit you were an ass. It's the little surprises in life.)"

"_Votre français est meilleur quand vous êtes fâché_. (Your French is better when you're angry.)"

She bristled and felt her grip on the doorknob tighten. "Thanks." Pushing at the door, she continued. "If you'll excuse me, Ah was in the middle of a nap when you came by to…apologize."

"Need company?" His lips formed a mature smirk.

She bit her tongue and hoped that the tingling in her fingers wasn't because her blood flow was completely cut off. "Funny," she grouched. "Now, if you'll excuse me?"

He removed his hand from her door and tipped his head at her. "_A demain_. (Until tomorrow.)"

The door slammed in his face.

X

JP shook his head. "You, _mon ami_, are lucky she didn't impale you with a ruler."

"Always lookin' for a way to include my ass in de conversation, aren't ya?"

His friend chuckled. "Not as much as you do."

The two men were relaxing in the designated sitting area of Ororo's loft. Remy was glad for the privacy. Thieves relied on staying inconspicuous; the idea of having to discuss his day in the faculty workroom where anyone could overhear him didn't sit well with his particular background. Letting his head fall back on the couch, Remy sighed. "I do feel bad."

"And you should." Ororo set a watering can next to one of her plants and moved toward her friends. Her voice held a disappointed edge. "It was incredibly rude—not to mention unprofessional. You are a teacher now, Remy. Your job is to foster a safe environment full of mutual respect, self-discipline, and good citizenship. If they get the French, great, but not at the expense of basic human decency." She pulled at her silver locks. "If you had acted that way to me, I would have electrocuted you."

He winced. "_Je suis désolé_, Stormy. (I am sorry, Stormy.)"

"I am not the one you should be saying that to."

JP yawned, settling back in the armchair, his arms folded behind his head. "Maybe you could just charm her."

"JP!" Ororo threw a remote control at his head. "Don't you dare give him any ideas!" Turning to Remy she narrowed her eyes. "Don't even think about it."

He raised an eyebrow, a disgusted look marring his handsome face. "Are you kidding? I cain't stand de _femme_. If I charm her, I'll 'ave to put up wit' her." His eyes flickered to a mahogany grandfather clock that set between a pair of ceiling high windows and grimaced. "Got a session wit' Cyke in ten."

JP waved a hand about the air. "_Ouí, le grand dirigeant assigne des partenaires qui argumentent. Peut-être vous obtiendrez heureux et il vous donnera l'Escroc. _(Yes, the great leader is assigning sparring partners. Maybe you'll get lucky and he'll give you the Rogue.)"

Ororo frowned at him. "You are being a prick. I'm not exactly sure what you said, but I know you're being a prick. Whenever you two use French, you're being pricks."

"I take offense to that, Ororo, dear. Remy is a prick in any language. It's unkind to sell him short."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, the youngest of the trio reluctantly stood. "De love in dis room is too overpow'ring. Lessee if Scott can be more nurturing." He grabbed his sunglasses from the coffee table and slipped them over his eyes. "Dinner?"

Ororo's mouth was a thin line. "Of course." She watched as her friend walked out the door. "JP?"

"Hmm?" He opened a bleary eye.

"He's still wearing the sunglasses."

There was a sigh. "_Je sais_, 'Ro. (I know.)"

"But why? Surely he doesn't feel like an outcast here."

"_Il se fait un banni_. (He makes himself an outcast.)"

"But why?"

"Because it's easier than getting too close."

X

Remy shuffled the deck of cards. It was a sort of ritual with him; a way to refocus his attention, to pretend the burning anxiety in his stomach was nothing but a figment of his imagination. As he grew older, he realized, it was becoming increasingly harder to ignore those emotions. He wondered if that was normal but shrugged against the question. What was normal for a mutant? He sighed, stilling the cards and shoving them into the pockets of his coat. He allowed himself a smile. Scott hated his coat; it was the little things…

"Gambit," Scott's voice called to him across the Danger Room's loudspeakers. "The coat? Again?" Remy smirked at the sigh that followed. "If that thing catches on something and you hang, I won't be responsible."

He tipped his head. "_Pas un problème_. (Not a problem.)" He waved his hand. "We gon' do dis?" From a pouch on his belt, he pulled a silver rod the length of his hand. His thumb rubbed across a grooved section of metal and the rod extended to a staff that stopped at chin-length. Twirling it in his hand, he looked toward the observation deck, a smile brightening his face.

Scott rolled his eyes. "Beautiful, Remy. Why even join the X-Men? Aren't there any underwear model jobs available?"

He smirked. "Yeah, but it gets boring."

The older man chuckled; his amusement was uplifting and tingled the back of Remy's head. After his negative day, his friend's emotions were a welcome change for his fried empathy.

"Well, Gambit, today you meet your training partner," Scott switched into leader-mode. "Now, don't get me wrong, a training partner does not mean that you won't train with the complete team—we have to foster the large group as well, but we decided that the benefits of partners couldn't be overlooked. I've chosen partners based on type of powers, fighting skills, leadership qualities, and mental and physical prowess. This is not to say that teams cannot and will not be revised as necessity deems; they can. Any questions?"

Remy fought to stifle his yawn, but failed miserably. "_Non_."

"Thanks for the rallying cry."

"Hey, you be de great motivator, Cyke. I'm but a lowly foot soldier."

"You're full of shit."

"_Vrai_. (True.)"

Scott's huff resounded through the cavernous room. "Alright Casanova. Curb the crap. Despite my better judgment, I've assigned you a partner. Try to control yourself and play nice. I don't want any complaints."

He rubbed the stubble on his jaw. "Don' t'ink I've ever gotten a complaint."

"Hardy-har-har. I mean it, Lebeau." He was silent for a moment, and then sighed. "I'm going to have you run Scenario 14-C. I'm sending your partner down now."

As the electric door slid open, Remy came to an astounding realization: Scott had finally, finally gotten something right.

The evidence for that truth was slinking toward him in a very revealing black leotard.

Remy let out a breath and pushed off from where he had been holding up the wall. "_Chére_," he purred, extending his hand and grasping the long painted fingers before stooping to press a kiss on her knuckles. "Miss me?" His voice was low and a smirk spread over his lips.

She batted her eyes and leaned into him, her lips a whisper above his own. Her voice was thick with that sexy British accent and he felt the chill down to his toes when she answered his question. "The question, luv, is did you miss me?"

He grinned.

Scott cleared his throat. "Positions please."

Remy swallowed the "missionary or doggie-style" comment but he caught the knowing look in Betsy Braddock's violet eyes.

"You are a very bad man, aren't you?"

He shrugged, enjoying the way her voice purred from her lips. They were plump and red and he wondered if they tasted as good as they looked. "De worst, _p'tite_. T'ink maybe you can fix me?"

Those red lips puckered. His eyes glowed behind dark shades but they never left those lips. "Why would I want to fix you?" She smirked. "I think I prefer you broken."

He caught the nosepiece with his finger and dipped the sunglasses away from his eyes. A soft gasp erupted from her throat followed by the delicious curve of her apple-red lips. He let his eyes flash as he spoke in a husky whisper, "Well, break away."

X

Her foot connected with his shoulder, knocking him off balance. For a moment she was weightless; both feet were off the ground, one flying toward him as the other danced away, all the while her body twisting itself through the air in a sideways pirouette. Her leg hit him squarely in the chest just as her other foot touched the mat. She used the momentum from her spin to pull him down.

She smiled in triumph at having knocked him from his stance. He was sprawled out on the mat, staring up at her with his glowing eyes; his arms hooking behind his head as he admired her form. He reached out with his empathy, curious to how she felt, and was happy to feel the slow tickle of lust pump red-hot through his veins. She stooped, offering her hand and blushing as she felt his eyes rake across her chest. She pulled him to his feet, and looked up at him from under lowered lids.

A blood-red nail traced circles upon his chest. "You're all sweaty, luv."

"So are you." He watched the sooty lashes graze her olive complexion.

"You need a shower."

His fingers slid up the length of her arm and stopped at her shoulder. Tangles of purple hair clung to her neck. He peeled them from her skin, his eyes focusing on the gentle pulse, pulse, pulsing in her neck. A slight smile crept onto his lips as he watched the almost-invisible beat quicken.

She shuddered. "Perhaps I need one too." It was a whisper. Her eyes closed and she sighed. He let his thumb trace her jaw.

"A-hem." Almost forgot about him.

He rolled his eyes. "Scott."

"Psylocke?"

Her eyes opened. Hunger glowed in them. "Yes?"

"I need to discuss the session with Gambit. You did very well. Considering he spent the entire time on the mat." His annoyance was made all the more obvious from the intercom's volume.

She stared into his eyes. "Of course." Then, in a whisper, "Don't let him fix you just yet." She sashayed to the door, an extra swing in her hips for his benefit, he was sure.

Scott waited for the door to close behind her before he launched into his critique. "What the hell was that!"

Remy winced.

"You just let a girl whoop your ass! And why? What possible reason can you give for your lack of—I don't know—everything!" He sighed; it reverberated throughout the room. "You cannot use these Danger Room sessions as your own personal peep show!"

He laughed out loud. "C'mon, _mon ami_! D'ya t'ink I was de only one peepin'?"

"It's deplorable."

"It's human." He shielded his eyes and focused on his friend's form on the observation deck. "Like you wasn't lookin'."

"No. I wasn't."

"How could you not? She's beautiful!" He pulled his sunglasses from a pocket and slid them on his face.

"I don't look…anymore."

He bit his tongue; a familiar ache began in the back of his head and hammered down his neck until it reached his heart. There it stopped; grasping the organ so tightly he thought it might burst. And he understood.

"_Je suis désolé_. (I am sorry.)"

A sigh. "It's okay." Another sigh. "Look, just quit with the act. You're supposed to be helping her hone her fighting skills, not trying to look down her shirt."

"I don't have to resort t' somet'in' so crude."

"And, yet…"

"Jus' 'cause I don' have to don' mean I won'."

"Hit the showers, lover boy."

Remy chuckled and picked at his uniform. The leather sucked against his skin. He unclipped his belt, letting it fall to the floor, before peeling his shirt from his hot body. The air kissed at him and he shivered against its forwardness. A shower—with or without Betts—sounded wonderful. He gathered his things, throwing them over his shoulder, as he punched the button for the door.

X

Rogue was in a panic; she gritted her teeth and picked up her pace. She had a Danger Room session in exactly…oh, now. How could she expect Scott and Xavier to take her seriously about her wishes to become a full-fledged member of the X-Men if she couldn't even make it on time to a late training session? Her boots hit the tiled floor and she skidded toward the door. Her brakes failed her and she threw her arms over her face. A gentle swish pushed humid air toward her and she managed a curt "Look out!" before toppling into a hard, hot body.

"Oomph!" Arms wrapped around her and she let herself be curled into him as they both fell to the ground from the ferocity of their collision.

His body was moist; she could feel the sweat through her bodysuit. His arms were clamped tightly around her torso, his strength pressing her into his chest. She felt light-headed from his scent, a mixture of sweat and something else? She wondered at it for a moment before opening her eyes. Tanned skin, bare and glistening, twinkled back at her. She struggled against his hold, fearful of so much wonderful nakedness. What if her skin had touched?

He released her and she sprang from him. Her eyes green and glowing and wild with fear, she set back on her knees and wrapped her arms around herself. From the corner of her eye, she saw him shift. Abdominal muscles clenched as he moved, a line cutting past each and isolating it from the others. They were so perfectly individual that, despite her powers, she wanted to reach out and run a finger down them. She imagined they would feel like the metal slabs of a xylophone—only not metal, instead, soft, wet, luxurious flesh.

A hand wove into her ponytail, fingering the sleek, straight strands with curiosity. It slid down to her shoulder and shook her gently. "You okay?"

She stiffened. One eye peeked out from over her arm. She groaned.

An easy smirk. "You're okay." He stood, grabbed an elbow and pulled her up from the floor.

"Thanks." It was a mumble.

He chuckled. "_Votre accueil._ (Your welcome.)" He shook out his thick mane of hair, freeing the droplets from his follicles and sending them careening through the air. A drop landed on her mouth and she jerked in surprise. Without thinking, she licked her lips; the salt stayed on her tongue.

* * *

Ooohhhh! Things are heating up! 'Course, the problem is that it's not all in the right department. (Dodges empty beer bottles.) Before any of you throttle me, understand that I am a FIRM believer in all things Romy! That being said, I am also a firm believer in all things Remy and let's face it, with or without Rogue, Gambit is a flirt. And it's not like he's doing anything wrong...there are no strings on him...yet.

The ending is meant to be sexy. I thought it was sexy. My editor thought it was kinky. It grossed my sister out. What do you think?

I appreciate all of those who took the time to review: kayleespade, ColossusR, Jedi Ditz, Chica De Los Ojos Cafe, Nettlez, Alecto's Muse, FluidDegree, ishandahalf.

Also, thanks to those of you who added my story as one of your favorites. I'm very honored that you consider my story good enough for that list. I hope you continue to enjoy it.

Please continue to review. I appreciate constructive criticism...but I'll take praise too. ; )

Thanks!

Anamarie


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

**I've never been the kind to ever let my feelings show  
And I thought that bein' strong meant never losin' your self-control**

**---Keith Urban, Tonight I Wanna Cry**

Rogue watched as Remy disappeared down the hall. He moved with a swagger that defied the uniform he wore. To be a member of the X-Men, one had to be completely dedicated to the belief, to Xavier's dream, that humans and mutants could and would co-exist peacefully despite their biological differences. It was a life that was filled with danger and disappointment. There had to be a stout sense of obligation embodied in each member, a yearning to better the world, the willingness to put the needs of others before one's own. There had to be discipline. And yet, he moved with a _swagger_. She gritted her teeth. X-Men didn't move like that; they were collected, severe in their actions, calculating. He did not move like an X-Man…but he didn't move like a civilian either…he was too…_fluid_.

"Rogue?"

She looked up. Scott was staring down at her from his spot on the observation deck. She sighed. "Yeah, Scott?"

"Come on up. I need to discuss some things with you."

She nodded, moving to the doorway just beneath the plate glass windows and following the stairs up until they opened into the control room. Scott was facing her, his back to a large monitor that displayed statistics from the Danger Room's previous run. Remy Lebeau's face—conceited grin firmly implanted on his features—flickered across the screen followed by a flash of purple, too fast for her to properly discern.

"Sit down, Rogue." He nodded to a chair near him. She obeyed, her green eyes watching him curiously. "How was your day?"

Her jaw flexed. "Fine." She wrangled the angry tone as best she could.

He nodded. "Good. I wanted to—"

"Why do Ah have Remy Lebeau as a co-teacher?" She hadn't meant to interrupt him, but she couldn't keep the irritation in check any longer.

He looked confused. "What--?"

_Well, hell. Why stop now?_ She continued. "Why am Ah stuck with him, Scott?" She stood. "He's a jerk. He missed the first two sessions this morning. Ah can't work with someone who isn't even willing to get out of bed and help. That's unfair…to the students as well as to me."

A hand moved to his face; he stroked his smooth chin as he listened to her. Clearing his throat, he began awkwardly, "Remy…is…difficult some times…"

"Ohmigawd. You're defending him!"

"No. No, I'm not." His voice was even, controlled. "But you have to understand—"

"What? What is there to understand? He's an ass. He shouldn't be within five miles of a school." She fell back into the chair with a thud, her hands covering her face. "Ah don't believe this. Out of everyone, Ah would think you would understand."

He sighed. "I do understand, Rogue, but you don't know the entire story. Remy…he's not like the rest of us…"

"Ya think?"

"We have to make certain…allowances for him."

"Are you telling me that he's on some sort of faculty I.E.P.?"

He quickly covered the nervous laugh with the back of his hand. "Sort of."

"Ah didn't realize that ass-hole-ism was recognized by the state of New York as a debilitating condition. Ah'll make sure to point that out the next time Ah have to walk by a construction site." She stood quickly, the suddenness knocking over her chair.

"Rogue, wait!" He reached out to grab her arm, but quickly withdrew his hand. It fell to his side. "What do you want me to do?"

Eyes flashed. "Ah want him gone. Let someone else deal with his antics! Ah don't need him."

He licked his lips, beginning slowly, "I can't do that, Rogue. Unfortunately, the three classes you teach are the only ones that we could…qualify…him for."

"You've got to be kiddin' me. Okay…the French…Ah can maybe see. But drama and art appreciation? He wouldn't know art if it ran up and bit him on his cocky ass."

Once again, the back of his hand hid a laugh. Scott swallowed weighing how to dance around her comment. "Well, actually, Remy knows quite a bit about art…"

She gave him a disbelieving look.

"He used to be…a…collector," he smiled, "a collector…and…a…dealer."

He didn't think her eyebrow could reach any higher. "A dealer?" She started to sit down again, but realized that the chair was still upended. Instead, she leaned against one of the long tables housing the monitors. "You mean, he knows how much different pieces are worth?" She looked momentarily impressed. "Wouldn't've thought that."

"Just give him another chance. He's irresponsible at times, but he'll get it."

"He insulted me, Scott. Right in front of the students."

His jaw twitched, an internal battle waged on his face. He was caught between doing what was right as a friend and what was right as a principal. She wasn't the least bit surprised by his answer. "I'll talk to him; he won't do it again. Now," he righted her chair and offered it to her once more, "I need to discuss your new sparring partner with you."

She huffed, his offhanded dismissal of her concerns unnerving her. This was not the Scott Summers she had grown to know. What sort of power did Remy Lebeau hold over her fellow X-Men? Was he a telepath? Surely, Xavier, being the most powerful mutant mind in the world, would not succumb to another telepath's powers. She crossed her arms over her chest, half-listening to the intonations of her leader's voice.

"Rogue?" She jumped. Scott frowned. "You're not even listening to me."

_You didn't listen to me._ "Sorry," she grumbled.

"I was just saying that it may be…disturbing for you at first…but that I truly believe this will be for the best…for everyone concerned. We all have to get used to the idea…even me…but with your history—"

"What in the world are ya talkin' 'bout, Scott?"

There was a swish as the stairwell's door pushed open. "He's referring to me."

Scott stiffened and she turned toward the voice. Joseph, his hand still holding the door open, watched her with bright blue eyes. "Scott, could I speak to Rogue alone?"

She looked at Scott; his jaw twitched against grinding teeth. He glanced from Rogue to Joseph, visibly weighing the consequences of his actions. Finally, he sighed; then clasping Rogue's shoulder, he murmured, "If you have any questions, we'll talk later," before pushing past Joseph and down the stairs.

"That was strange," she watched as the door clicked shut.

"Yeah." He was wearing the official uniform of the X-Men. The black leather molded to his muscular build and covered his entire body only to end at his wrists and ankles. He wore no gloves, and Rogue marveled at how untouched his hands seemed. No calluses or scars marred their appearance and she imagined that the touch of his fingertips would feel soft against her skin. He shifted his weight and she realized she had been staring.

"What's up?" Offering a flirty smile, she cocked her head in his direction.

"You look beautiful."

It wasn't what she had been expecting, but she felt the smile in her eyes. "Thanks."

"Your hair—it's very pretty."

Now things were getting weird. She half expected him to produce a pair of scissors so he could have an auburn lock. "Thanks."

He moved toward her and she bristled. "I'm not crazy; I promise."

"That's the second time you've said that to me. Ah'm starting to get worried." She twisted her fingers around the chair's metal frame just in case she had to throw it at him. Scott had seemed rather uneasy about leaving her alone with Joseph and now she was starting to feel a little apprehensive herself.

"Was it always so exotic?" When she narrowed her eyes in confusion, he clarified, "Your hair? Was it always so unusual?"

Gingerly, her fingers wove into the pallid tresses, her memory of the night at the Statue of Liberty swimming to the forefront: she had been used—kidnapped—forced into participating in an act of terrorism against the world leaders at the UN summit. Human and mutant relations were—for lack of a better word—strained—and unfortunately, that strain meant that those unlucky enough to be mutants would pay. The UN had been contemplating a worldwide security mandate: mutant registration. No mutant wanted this law to come into being. Some just had different methods for protesting.

"No," she squeaked, "it wasn't." Heat spread across her chest and she recognized the unspent tears instantly. What was wrong with her? Surely this wound was not still festering?

But the truth was, that even though she didn't think about that night very often, it did still bother her. How could it not? She had almost died. But more than that, she had almost died for a cause that she hadn't believed in, simply because she had the powers necessary for Eric Lensherr, the mutant terrorist known as Magneto, to complete his little act of genocide. Because her mutation allowed her to transfer another's abilities to herself with little more than a touch of a finger, Magneto had sought her out, convinced that he could infect her with his magnetic powers and force her to run his plan.

He had created a machine that was powered by his specific gifts. The magnetic fields he generated worked with a nuclear core to produce a genetically altering pulse. It had no effect on mutants; in fact, they were immune. But the baseline humans unlucky enough to be in the path of its radioactive wave would be forever changed—not mutants, but not baselines—something else entirely.

God help her, but she understood his plan, understood the reasoning behind it. If the world's leaders were no longer considered "human" themselves, how could they support a law that would result in their own public ousting? After all, if the general public considered them mutants, how would they hold their specific offices? No baseline would vote for them. He wouldn't find out until later that his plan was tragically flawed. Baselines couldn't handle the radioactive exposure; their cells would slowly explode until they were little more than puddles. Thank God there had only been one fatality: Senator Robert Kelly; the X-Men had managed to stop the machine moments before the pulse reached the conference, but not before most of Rogue's life had been drained from her body.

She had only lived because of Logan. When he touched her skin, his mutation, a rapid healing ability, had coursed into her,allowing her to heal herself and survive. But a slice of her youth had been taken forever, the near death experience bestowing her with the pure white locks.

"I know what happened." Joseph's clear voice broke her free of her memories. When she didn't answer him, he continued. "Xavier explained the, uh, circumstances." Sensing her annoyance before it had a chance to bubble over; he crossed the room to stand right in front of her, his blue eyes piercing into her green ones. "Don't be angry just yet. Let me explain and then you can decide how to react. Deal?"

She nodded her head.

"My name is Joseph Dane. I have a sister, Lorna, who works for X-Corp. We're both mutants…obviously." He let out a nervous breath before raking a hand through his silver hair. "Our mother is a baseline, but our father is a mutant. He…has done many things that have given us no choice but to ostracize ourselves from him. We've even gone so far as to take our mother's maiden name as our surnames."

She felt a tickle at her brain. "Who was your father?" She sucked in a breath, already sure of the answer.

He lifted his hand. The chair rose steadily into the air, her fingers straining around its metal tubing as her feet left the ground. He lowered his hand and she felt the tiles beneath her feet once more. "My real name was Joseph Lensherr."

X

Remy hit the shower wall with a curse; the impact jarred his shoulder and he slumped against the tile. He tried to catch his breath, to breathe against the crushing of his heart, but the panic squeezed it tighter with every beat. Ice prickled his veins and his heart constricted further under the pressure of the invisible hand. He groped the wall, pushing himself away from the showerhead and towards the towel rack. Short, inaccurate pants were his only source of oxygen. He yanked at a towel, wrapping it around his waist before spilling into the corridor.

Empathy was a strange bedfellow. If he concentrated, he could send out feelers, little waves that glided over another's feelings like butterfly wings, gently caressing the emotions and bringing them back to him in tiny doses. When he did that, he had control, possession of his powers. Then, there were the times when the emotions came unbidden—free flowing bursts of swirling confusion dominated by one or two overpowering moods. When it came to him in such a way, he was like a ship amidst a tempest, no longer in control but struggling to rise above the storm. Sometimes, he won. Sometimes.

He recognized this feeling. There was no mistaking the emotion; it was the one he fought so fervently against, the one he dared not feel for its own sake. As he pushed toward the Danger Room, half-naked and soaking wet, he prayed to God he could find its source before it was too late…

He had never felt so afraid…

X

Scott was pacing the floor when he stumbled into him. "Remy! What the hell?"

He wasn't wearing his sunglasses, the thought occurred to him as the fluorescent lights pierced his retinas, but he ignored the sharpness of the light and grabbed his friend's shoulders. A shudder ran down his body, the fear increased. It was more acute than it had been before and he knew he had to be close. "Who's in de control room?"

Scott's face screwed into a very poor mask. "Why? What's going on?"

He didn't have time for this. "'Cause deir scared shitless." He pushed the X-Men's leader aside, his palms smarting as they cracked against the stairwell's heavy door.

"Gambit!" Scott's footsteps pounded after him.

He didn't pay attention to the sound but instead barreled into the observation booth. A man in a black uniform with long, silver hair stood over an all too familiar two-toned hair-do. She was shuddering, huddled over the back of a folding chair, hugging her arms close to her body.

The man leaned toward her, his hands outstretched, fingers curling over slender shoulders. She trembled at the contact.

Remy grabbed for his arm, jerking him away from Rogue, before burying his fist deep in the man's gut. Another wave of emotions pushed through him; her panic, her fear, and he swung again, the side of his hand driving between the man's shoulder blades, knocking him to the floor.

"Remy!" Scott skidded to a stop at the door.

"Stop!" She grabbed for him, pulling him away. "What the hell is wrong with you?" She was on her knees in front of the other man, her voice soothing, "Joseph? Joseph?"

Remy blinked. "Joseph? You know dis guy, p'tite?"

Scott ran a hand down his face. "That's what I was trying to tell you before you ran up here and did something stupid."

"'Course Ah know him! He's my sparring partner, you asshole."

Remy blinked again. "But you was scared…I could feel—"

"'Course Ah was scared! You come in here, attacking people for no good reason!" She scowled at him. "No wonder you need special treatment, you're perpetually stupid!"

He went rigid. A dangerous glow emanated from his eyes, fading only when he bowed stiffly in her direction; he pushed past Scott and stomped down the stairs. "_Peut-être la prochaine fois je nous ferai toute une faveur et vous lui permet de tue où vous vous tenez._ (Maybe next time I'll do us all a favor and let him kill you where you stand.)"

"Fuck you!" She shouted back.

"_Vous souhaitez_. (You wish.)"

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is going to be a long semester."

* * *

How's that for gratitude? He tries to save her and what does he get? Yelled at. That's what. I don't know how the rest of you felt about Joe getting punched, but I'm sort of sad that it wasn't Betsy instead. Hmm, I wonder what Remy'd do if Rogue cold-clocked his playmate? Something to think on...

Oh, yeah, my sister made an interesting point: she said that she likes that I use Scott as comic relief. Here's why: I just can't imagine that the dynamics of the team do not change when different characters are around. Remy's easy-going, charming disposition, coupled with his extraordinary skill, makes it hard for me to think that people around him--that know and are used to him--could not relax. Besides, I can just see him using his empathic skills to send soothing emotions toward those whose souls are unsettled. He's just that kind of a guy. You know, the one that heaps everything onto his shoulders but panics if anyone else tries to take on any emotional baggage. He feels too much responsibility to not try to help out his friends...besides, Scott lost Jean...Remy's not as heartless as Rogue (currently) believes...

I want to thank those of you who reviewed: Leash, my long-lost cousin FluidDegree, theblondeone07, Chica De Los Ojos Cafe, Jedi Ditz, and ishandahalf. Those reviews really drive me, so, please keep them coming. Also, I'm not averse to constructive criticism--as long as it is constructive. However, I'm not crazy about pure meanness...

Thanks for adding my story to your favorites list! I cannot express how flattering that is!


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

**At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet  
and a freight train running through the  
middle of my head  
Bruce Springsteen, I'm on Fire**

"So, he was trying to help you?"

Rogue blinked at the girl sitting across the room from her. "Kitty, were ya even listenin' to me? Do you have any idea what Ah just said?"

The younger woman stuck her chin out and crossed her arms over her chest. "You said that Remy came running into the control room," her lips drew into an evil smirk, "and that he was only wearing a towel." Her brown eyes glossed over momentarily before she shook herself and pouted, "I am never in the right place at the right time."

Slapping her palm against the nightstand they shared, Rogue let out a frustrated breath. "Would ya just please try to focus! Joseph is Magneto's son! Do you have any idea what this means? Ah agreed to go on a date with him an' now Ah find out that he is the son of the psychopath who tried to kill me! And not just me—hundreds, no thousands of innocent people!"

"So don't go out with him then," Kitty's eye roll was more than Rogue could handle at that particular moment, and she threw a pillow at the brunette's bobbing ponytail.

"Kit," she groaned, "Ah can't do that!"

An eyebrow rose. "Why not?"

"Ah can't just not go on a date with him because of what his father did. That's like him refusing to date me because of my power."

"What if he decided against going out with you because of your power?"

"Well, it's not like Ah could blame him."

Kitty's bubblegum pink nails flitted across the space between them. "Well, there you go."

"Waddaya mean, 'there you go'?"

"It's the same difference."

"No, it's not!"

"So, it's okay for him but not for you?" Her ponytail jerked behind her as a disapproving look settled over her features.

"It's not the same thing—"

Kitty cut her off. "Yes. It is." Her fingers pulled the hair tie from her brown locks and she shook them out. "Honestly, Rogue—"

It was her turn to be cut off as Rogue leaned forward, her green eyes flashing dangerously. "It's not like Ah can die if he so much as touches me."

The retort came out in an exasperated huff. "No, but you almost did when his dad touched you."

Tension sliced through the silence and they stared each other down. Both were adamant about their points and neither was going to give the other an inch. Finally, Rogue rolled her eyes and flipped to her side, her back signaling the end of the conversation.

"Ah gotta get to sleep; Ah've got to be able to deal with the swamp rat in the morning. If he even bothers to show up," she added, pulling her covers up to her shoulders and squeezing her eyes tight against the light.

For a long moment, there was nothing; then, she heard Kitty sigh, heard the click as the light was turned off, heard her friend phase through the door. She didn't like being cross with Kit; it bothered her to refuse the other woman's sympathy. But the fact of the matter was that for all of her head nodding, eye rolling, and gentle encouraging, Kitty had no idea what it was like to be forever untouchable.

She realized how ironic that sounded given the nature of Kitty's mutant abilities. The girl could literally make herself untouchable, turning intangible by concentrating on the molecules that made up her body. She could bend them with a thought, thinning them, rolling them, twisting them so that they were able to pass through the spaces between the atoms of other solids. To listen to the bubbly young woman describe her powers was definitely a crash course in physical science, which was probably the reason she taught that particular subject.

Kitty could become truly untouchable. And yet…

Rogue's heart squeezed and a tear moved down the curve of her face.

X

Remy threw his sweat-soaked towel into the bin and rolled his neck, trying to loosen the knots that had gathered at the base of his head and traveled into his shoulders. His jaw was beginning to hurt from all the clenching and the ache was starting to move into his temples. Digging into the bag one last time, he spared it a glance before moving into the hall.

After the outburst in the control room, he had hightailed it to the workout room; fueled by the twin emotions of anger and embarrassment, he had beat the shit out of the heavy bag before moving to perform fast-paced punches on the smaller speed bag. He had let the anger pour into the heavy canvas and had to prevent himself from entertaining the idea that either one of the bags had auburn and white hair. He would never think of hitting a woman, even if the one in question needed an obscene amount of sense shook into her.

Now heat coursed down his arms, heavy from use, and he grimaced as he raised them high over his head to stretch the constricted muscles. He admired them; they were hard, swelling and ebbing into perfectly cut biceps and seemingly chiseled from rock. He grunted as he pulled them behind his back, elongating them.

He bypassed the locker room, enjoying the proof of his workout on his skin. He'd shower in his bathroom. What was the point of having a private bath if he didn't use it?

Glancing at a wall clock, he sighed. 'Ro and JP were going to kill him if he didn't hurry. They were not late eaters and reminded him of that point every time the three decided to have dinner. The time was pushing 9:00 and if he didn't get a move on, he'd be stuck warming leftovers from the students' dinner while his friends were out eating real food. The thought of steak made his mouth water and he picked up his pace, his footsteps remarkably quiet for someone running in boots on a tiled floor. He dove into the elevator, punching the button for the second floor several times even though it was already lit. Patience was a virtue in his previous line of work, and while Remy was the best, he and patience maintained a love-hate relationship: it loved to torment him, and he hated to wait. Especially for steak.

He cracked his knuckles, his eyes watching the digital display on the elevator's doors. How many sublevels did this place have? The doors finally opened and he hit the carpet with long, powerful strides, his mission clear in his head: shower, dress, eat steak. He could fill in his plans as the night allowed, but as for now, those three things were his top priority.

He pushed open the door and watched as the hall's light spilled across the darkened room, cutting across the floor and his bed. A smirk slid over his face.

Black stiletto heels gleamed in the light.

X

"This is a bad idea, Charles," Ororo sat in one of the chairs across from the professor's desk; Scott was in the other. "Partnering Rogue with Joseph…knowing who his father is…it's unkind."

"For once, I gotta say…I agree. She was scared by the revelation."

Professor Charles Xavier steepled his fingers together and analyzed the situation. "I'm afraid that I do not agree. I believe that at this time, Rogue needs to emotionally mature. That means being able to accept the fact that guilt by association does not always apply. Joseph is not his father, Scott. He is a kind man who wants to make a difference."

"Too bad the apple never falls far from the tree," Scott mumbled.

Xavier ignored him. "As X-Men, as humans, we must give him the opportunity to prove he is more than his biology. That is, after all, what each of us is trying to accomplish. Rogue will be fine; she is a survivor."

"But at what cost will she survive?" Lines framed Ororo's eyes, her concern for the young woman wearing on her. "She was petrified of him."

"And how do you know?" The two teachers exchanged knowing glances and Xavier's eyebrows rose in question. "Come now, out with it."

"Remy was nearby."

"Oh?"

"Professor, you know how he is," Ororo shook her head, "the whole no-one-can-touch-me-cuz-I'm-so-cool thing? Which you know is an act," she added. "He did his—" she waved her hands around her head, "—thing…and what happened, Scott?"

The young man huffed. "I've never seen him so freaked…ever."

Xavier drummed a finger on his chin. "Perhaps his empathy is acting up. He's not lived in such close quarters with so many pubescent mutants in quite some time. The extra hormones and teen angst-drama could be wearing on his shields…"

"I don't think so, Professor." Scott leaned in, his jaw set. "I think she called for help and he was the only one who heard it."

"That's preposterous. If she had actually called for help, Betsy Braddock or myself would have heard her. It is far more likely that she was—yes—scared by the news of Joseph's origin but that she momentarily panicked. Remy misinterpreted the fear because his empathy is working overtime and overcompensated for the intensity. How did he handle it?"

Suddenly the two became very interested in the edging around the desk.

Xavier cleared his throat. "What happened?"

"In Remy's defense, he was trying to help her," Ororo began.

"He punched Joseph," Scott finished, holding up his fingers for clarification, "twice."

Xavier pinched his nose. "And what did Rogue do?"

"She yelled at him." Scott sucked in his breath.

Ororo picked at her cuticles. "And then he said something in French…"

"Which means he was being a prick," Scott explained.

"Oy."

Scott nodded. "That's what I said."

X

"Hello, luv. I couldn't sleep."

The stilettos disappeared behind a tuft of blanket only to readjust their position and obliterate the cotton mound. Stretching like caramel from a leather sling back, the gentle swell of a tanned calf made Remy's tooth ache. His eyes followed the soft slope of the knee to where the tight muscles of an exquisite thigh flexed under his gaze. She shifted and fabric, the same midnight as the shoes, fell across that thigh. He had to will himself not to cry.

His foot hooked around the edge of his door and he kicked it back to its frame. "Couldn't sleep?" He tossed his uniform to the floor and crossed his arms across his bare chest. "Got monsters under your bed, _chére_?"

The room was dark except for a sliver of moonlight bleeding through the blinds. He didn't need to see her to know she was watching him. He could feel her violet eyes grazing up and down his long, lean form, teasing his mouth, promising more than words. But when it came to seduction, Remy Lebeau was not a novice. In fact, he was usually the pursuer. Not that he minded a little role-reversal now and again, but there was no way in hell he was going to pull off the innocent act. Not even parochial school had achieved that goal.

He leaned against the wall, hooking his fingers into the belt loops on either side of his fly, and returned her gaze with one of his own. His was like fire—and he knew it. The irises lit, burning red in the heavy gray of the shadows. He heard her catch her breath; saw the quick rise of her chest. He slid to the bed, molasses down a porcelain pitcher, "Or maybe you just afraid o' de dark?"

She chuckled, her fingers skimming down his abs before hooking into the waistband. "Scared stiff, luv. Of course, if I had someone to keep me company at night…" She let the innuendo drop; the moon reflected off her perfect teeth.

Those red lips called to him and he decided that they reminded him of strawberries, ripe and plump and bursting with the sweet/sour taste uniquely belonging to the little fruit. Somewhere a voice of reason, sounding disturbingly like JP—_funny, would have expected Stormy_—shouted from the recesses of his mind. "_Arrêt! Ce que l'enfer faites-vous? Vous n'avez pas été même ici un mois et vous choisissez déjà votre prochain ex? _(Stop! What the hell are you doing? You haven't even been here a month and you're already picking your next ex?)" _Oh, yeah, French…that explains why it's JP._

But those lips…

She licked them.

Well, hell, with an invite like that…

He really did like strawberries.

X

Rogue awoke with a start and her head whirled in the dark, frantically searching the room around her. Heavy with blankets, she kicked them away, freeing her chest from their suffocating weight, and dropped back to her pillow. The air licked at her; she could have sworn she saw steam rise from her body. Glancing to her right, she checked Kitty's bed. The young woman was there and Rogue watched silently as the blankets rose and fell with her breathing. It was slow, deep, peaceful, and Rogue wished she were the one sleeping soundly.

Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands, she stifled a yawn. What had made her wake up? She squeezed her brow together, but nothing came to mind. Great, maybe it was a flash of memory from one of the psychos she'd had the pleasure of absorbing. The thoughts running through their minds would be enough to make a grown man sit up straight. She wondered if it was Magneto. Probably. She had just met his son, for goodness sake. Surely daddy dearest would have an opinion on that matter. She had such shit for luck.

It was bad enough that when she touched someone skin to skin, they passed out and she got a head full of their personalities, memories, and powers. But never one to half-ass something, she went one step further: once she touched them, they were in her head but good. They were never as strong as when they were first assimilated into her mind, but every now and again, those miniature souls would turn spastic and push to the forefront of her brain, causing her to dream about whatever sordid memory they retained from their true owners.

Made for some unholy nightmares.

She glanced at the clock then groaned. It was just after midnight. When she had been in college, she would have looked at that time and rejoiced that she still had a good eight hours before whatever project or exam was due. Now, as she looked at the blaring red numbers, she cringed. The kids arrived to class at eight. She needed to be there at least thirty minutes before them to make sure that the lesson's objectives were clearly displayed, that the cultural video was keyed up, that the internet activities could be accessed properly from the classroom, that the cyber-guards on those computers were functioning, and that she had something prepared to preoccupy her—she rolled her eyes—co-teacher. Plus, she wanted to run, shave her legs, and straighten her hair—an endurance test on its own. All of that meant that she had to be up by—she ticked off the hours on her fingers—five. And that was at the latest.

She rolled to her side and squeezed her eyes closed. A minute passed before she gave in. Swearing, she kicked her feet to the floor and climbed out of bed. She was wide-awake. And there was no way she'd fall back to sleep just laying there. She'd toss and turn and become more irritated with herself. No, getting up was the best plan. Even if it was after midnight.

Maybe she needed fresh air? She grabbed a sweater from her closet, her eyes watching Kitty as the door creaked softly. The sleeping girl's rhythmic breathing didn't falter once. Rogue sighed and pulled the thick material over her head. She lifted the latch and slowly pushed open the door to their balcony. A blast of warm air greeted her face and she allowed herself a smile as she stepped into the darkness. Either 'Ro was in a happy mood or there was some freak jet stream pulling weather in from the south. It didn't matter, because one way or the other, Rogue peeled off the hooded sweater and threw it to the balcony's floor.

She climbed onto the railing, her fingers digging into the spaces between bricks and her hands straining from the overwhelming absence of proportioned weight. There were several raised bricks to the left of the balcony that ran up the mansion's wall and formed a makeshift ladder to the one of the roof's eaves. She had found the camouflaged path one evening while sulking on the balcony and had used it as her own, private entrance to the roof after that.

Gripping the bricks in her hands, she pushed her body against the wall. As she climbed, she reveled against the feel of the rough rock against her skin. When one jagged edge scraped against her cheek, she wasn't sure if she felt pleasure or pain. Anytime something broke through the ever-present layer of protection she wore and actually touched skin, her emotions would twist into a confusion of fear and relief.

She reached the eave, her hands stretching to find a decent handhold. She walked her feet up, a precarious position to be sure, but there was not another way. Once her torso was almost parallel to her arms, she kicked one leg up, dragging her knee across the shingles, and flattening her body to push her weight into the roof. When she was sure that her center of gravity rested firmly on the roof, she began to crawl forward, her other leg trailing behind her until she could find a way to comfortably pull it up. It was a blessing that the mansion's roof consisted of gently sloping gables. If they had been anymore harsh, she would have been pitched right off.

Sweat trickled from her hairline and she grinned as she moved to rest on her favorite slope with her back against the mansion's rising third floor. But when she got there, she was unhappy to find that her spot was already otherwise occupied. She couldn't hide the disappointment in her voice when she asked the squatter, "What're _you_ doin' here?"

X

He should not have done it.

Even while he was doing it, his conscience was screaming at him to stop.

But he hadn't listened.

He should not have done it.

It wasn't that he felt guilty. Why should he? He had made no promises, swore no oaths of love and loyalty. There had been absolutely no false pretenses offered or received. No deals had been struck; no contracts signed. Really, truly, it hadn't been anything more than a simple hook up.

To him.

But women, he realized, women were different. For all he knew, she was planning their lives together in some pretty little town with a temperate climate and good schools. But, then again, Betsy didn't strike him as that kind of a girl. No. She wasn't that type. The only emotions she had projected had been pure, unadulterated lust. And she had been hungry. He grinned as he remembered and pulled the cigarette carton from his jeans' back pocket.

Normally, he kept them in his trench coat, but when he had pushed open the door to his balcony, he had been happily greeted by a blast of warm air and had chosen to leave the coat hanging over the railing. The climb to the roof had been tricky. He had not yet had the opportunity to equip his new quarters with a much needed escape route. Too bad Xavier had given his old room away.

He tamped down the cigarette, setting the carton beside him. No need to waste energy by putting it back in his pocket; he was just going to get another when he finished this one. He held it between his lips and watched his finger and thumb rub circles into each other. A second later, it glowed, a perfect pink fire imprisoned in the rounded tip of his finger. He tapped the end of his cigarette; a flame caught, and he enjoyed a slow draw.

Exhaling, he scratched his brow. He shouldn't have done it.

After Paris, or more specifically, after Genny, he had sworn to himself that he would not get involved with co-workers, but the day had been so frustrating…and he was the worst at keeping New Year's resolutions. Now things would get weird. He hoped she wouldn't start calling him and hanging up. Or following him. Or just showing up…well, maybe she could just show up every once in a while. He licked his lips, her lip-gloss still sticky on his mouth.

Stormy and JP were gonna kill him.

He tilted his head, ears alert in the darkness, and held his breath. There. He heard it again. It was coming from the direction of his old room. The telltale sound of something scraping against brick was moving up the side of the mansion. Someone had found his express route to the roof. Dieu! Whoever it was moved with the grace of a hippo. He flinched at the heavy plop of a body against the gable and shuddered at the sound of something grating against the shingles. So much for alone time.

Sighing, he blew out a lungful of smoke before crushing the butt under the heel of his combat boot. He slid his sunglasses out from where they had been hanging from his beater and slipped them over his eyes. Damn force of habit. A second later, an unruly mass of white bangs and auburn curls appeared beside him. Good thing he had put out his cigarette, 'cause he'd have swallowed it for sure.

"What're _you_ doin' here?" If he hadn't already seen the disappointment in her eyes, he'd have definitely heard it in her voice.

_Maybe if I ignore her, she'll go away_.

"What're you followin' me now?"

His luck had really gone to pot lately.

He tilted his chin in her direction but didn't face her. Instead, he watched through the corners of his eyes. "Well, Miss'ippi, considerin' dat I was here first, I'm gon' go wit' _non_. But I'm sure if'n you wait here long 'nough, some fool'll come lookin' for ya."

"Ya're on my roof." She had pulled herself to sit right in front of him, arms crossed over her chest, legs straddling the roof's swell.

"_Désolé_, I di'n't see ya're name written anywhere. 'Pologies."

"Ya're such a dick. Ah swear—"

He sighed, his fingers rubbing underneath his glasses. "Look, _p'tite,_ I don' wan' fight wit' you right now. 'm tired. It's—" he glanced up to the sky, his eyes tracing the moon, "reckon' it's 'bout twelve-thirty. Dat makes it a brand-new day. D'ya t'ink we could call a truce for t'night?"

She hesitated.

He prepared himself for another verbal barrage.

"Fine," she shrugged.

His brow furrowed. "Fine?" he asked.

"Fine," she repeated. "Ah don't much feel like fightin' right now anyway."

He nodded. "Okay." He ran his tongue over his teeth, "Maybe we could start over," he thrust his hand toward her, "'m Remy."

She raised her eyebrows, assessing his face for any hints of malice. "Rogue," she answered finally, catching his hand and shaking it quickly before letting her own drop to her lap.

"_Bon_."

They settled into peaceful tolerance for each other. She sat across from him, her gloved fingers picking at the shingles. Gloved—even at night, when she had no intentions of running into another person, she had worn gloves. Guess he wasn't the only one with forces of habit.

The truth was, though, that at that moment he envied her, her mutations. To be untouchable meant freedom. Touch provoked confusion, clouding emotions with tender caresses and insincere promises whispered low under starlight. He knew the intimate power of such touches—his own hot breath had tickled many ears with similar empty pleasantries while he relied on the one need so primitive sometimes he wasn't sure if he was the hunter or the prey.

But she was above all that. She could not be touched. She didn't understand the need to feel the slide of fingertips down skin, was completely ignorant to the way lips felt against a bare neck. She was lucky, Remy reasoned, without touch's corruption, she could not be hurt, nor could she hurt others. Surely her heart was as inaccessible as her body.

But he remembered the hurt expression she had worn when she left the classroom. He remembered the rising fear she had projected when that man had placed his hands on her shoulders. And for a moment, he felt pity for her predicament. Too bad untouchable wasn't the same as unreachable.

"You hungry?" He shifted uncomfortably on the ridge.

She looked at him. Shrugging, she answered, "Ah could eat."

"Wanna go down t' de kitchen wit' me?" She hesitated and he quickly added, "two pairs o' eyes are better at findin' decent leftovers."

A small laugh escaped her lips. He smiled.

"Okay, Sparky, Ah'll help you."

"_Bon_."

She flipped to her stomach, and slowly began to lower herself toward the brick footholds. She glanced up and found him staring down at her, an incredulous look on his face. "What?"

"Roofs ain't really your t'ing, are dey?"

"Shut-up."

He raised his hands. "Jus' an observation, _chére_."

X

If Xavier's mansion was a sight to behold, Xavier's kitchen was an interior designer's fantasy. If there was any room in the mansion where past meant present, this was it. English Victorian tile, a throwback from the professor's Westminster days, covered the floor, floral designs of whites, browns, and blues winding in and out between stainless steel appliances. Dark wood cabinets filled the spaces below and above brown countertops. In the center of the room, before the kitchen bled into a cozy breakfast nook, stood an island. A stovetop was nestled in one end, while the other side boasted an eight-piece tile inlay that matched the floor's design. A hanging rack was secured to the ceiling above the island and housed the Institute's polished copper cookware.

The breakfast nook was pushed to the far wall, where bay windows ran from the floor to the ceiling, allowing early birds a perfect view of the footbridge and pond at the back of the estate. At night the drapes were closed, thick brown pseudo-walls that restricted the view.

Rogue pressed the light switch and the room was illuminated in a soft white glow from an electric chandelier that hung over the table in the breakfast nook. A quick glance around the room and the two teachers headed to the food. Rogue checked the pantry, a room roughly the size of a large walk-in closet, while Remy had decided to scrounge the refrigerator for leftovers.

"Any luck?" Her voice almost echoed.

Remy honed in on what was left of the devil's food cake. "_Ouí_. Jus' found some o' dat cake from de ot'er night."

Her head appeared in the doorway. "Nah-uh," she whispered disbelievingly, her eyes searching the counter near the fridge. "Don't kid with me, Cajun."

He grinned, pulling out the platter, covered in green plastic wrap left over from the holidays, and placed it on the countertop. "_Chére_, I don' never kid 'bout chocolate."

Clasping her hands, she let out a squeal of excitement, before running to the cabinets and pulling out two plates.

"Whoa dere, Miss'ippi. Whatcha doin'? We don' need dem plates. Jus' some forks. We gon' eat dis thing right off de platter. No need makin' more of a mess, _hein?_"

She shrugged and replaced the plates. Sliding the silverware drawer open, she looked at him curiously. "Didn't ya go out with 'Ro an' JP? They always go out to dinner after the first night of classes. Didn't they invite you?"

He waved her to him, his hands itching to get hold of a fork. "Dey asked me, sure."

"Why didn't you go? Aren't they your best friends?"

He grabbed the fork from her outstretched hand and peeled the plastic back. Digging into the cake, he shrugged, "Somet'in' came up."

"Oh."

The chocolate—cool from its time in the fridge—melted in his mouth. His eyes rolled back in sugary ecstasy. Should've eaten this earlier, maybe then his sweet tooth wouldn't have caused him so much trouble… He sighed, not even the confection could make him forget his mistake. When he opened his eyes, he found two emeralds gazing back at him. "_Ouì_?"

"What 'came up'?"

_Lord._ "Animal, mineral, or vegetable?"

"Pardon?"

"Jus' t'ought dat if we're gon' play twenty questions, I should get my obligatory hint."

"That's code for, 'Ah don't wanna talk about it.'"

He licked his fork and leaned his hip against the counter. "Pretty much."

"Can Ah ask you a different question?"

"Can I stop ya?"

"Why weren't ya up in time for classes?"

He pressed his fork into a few large crumbs. They molded to the prongs, pushing through the spaces and sticking to the metal. His voice was quiet, introspective, "Couldn't sleep."

"Why not?"

"Nerves."

She rolled her eyes. "Sorry, but you don't strike me as the type to let your nerves bother ya."

"Never said dey was mine." He looked at her then, his face serious.

She imagined that she saw a shimmer of light flash behind his sunglasses and swallowed. "You a telepath?"

He snorted. "I ain't no spook."

"What _are_ you then?" The whispered words carried an aura of fear.

He held her gaze, or at least, she thought he did. He blew out a tuft of air; it caught his bangs, lifting them up before they fell about his forehead once more. "Somet'in' else." He stood and turned to the refrigerator. "T'ink dey got any milk left?"

She watched as he pushed away from the counter, his neck muscles tightening all the way down to his shoulders. They were broad and strong, set off by the sleeveless white beater he was wearing. She watched his head disappear behind the stainless steel door and she marveled at the way his abdominal muscles cut through the cotton material, rippling with the movement of his body. Her cheeks burned and she diverted her gaze.

He emerged, an empty carton in his hand. "Dey put it back. It's freakin' empty…an' dey put it back!" He chunked it into the trashcan before turning to look at her. "Miss'ippi? You okay?"

"Fine. Ya're—_Ah'm_ fine. Just fine." _Oh gawd, Ah'm stammerin' like an idiot._

He raised an eyebrow. "'S long as your fine?"

"Fine."

"O-kay." He moved toward the breakfast nook and dropped in one of the straight back chairs. "Since we's playin' de question game, mind if'n I ask you one?"

"Prob'ly. But go on."

"_Mercí_." He studied his hands, turning them over and under. "Why were you so scared of dat white-haired _homme_?"

"Ah wasn't…scared."

"Oh. Okay. Why were you so completely indifferent toward him den?"

She dropped her fork in the sink; the now-empty platter and Remy's fork followed it. "He told me something."

"What? Dat dere's no such thing as fairies?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, asshole, that he—he's related to someone Ah don't like."

An eyebrow raised, but he made no attempt to call her out. She was thankful for that. "An' dis is bad cuz you like de guy, am I right?"

"You sure your not a head-case?" He grinned. It lit up his entire face, and she imagined, made his eyes twinkle. Which brought about another question. "Why do you wear those things?"

"Eye condition."

"Oh. Like Scott?"

"No."

She sighed. He hadn't pushed her for more information; she supposed she could do the same for him. "This was okay," she gestured between them. "Talkin' wit' you, Ah mean." He nodded and she continued. "What's gonna happen tomorrow?"

"You mean, when our truce's run out?"

She nodded. "Yeah, that's what Ah mean."

"I'll go back to being a French-speaking prick an' you'll go back to being a…"

Her hands found her hips. "A _what_?"

Grinning deviously, he crossed the room to stand next to her, his hand patting her shoulder with mock understanding. "You'll go back to being a ball-busting bitch. Ouch!" he protested as her fist connected with his shoulder. "Hey! I was bein' _nice_."

* * *

There you go. So sorry about the long time between posts. It was a really busy time of the year for me, but I'm good for a little while again.Thanks to musagirl15, dougyboy, Painting.In.Blood, Stella Roberts, Spicy Sweet, theblondeone07, poisoned touch, toomakeyoulaugh, RG Marie, FluidDegree, Chica De Los Ojos Cafe, and ishandahalf for reviewing. I fixed it so that you can now leave anonymous reviews, so please do if you don't have an account. Also, thanks for adding Broken Road to yourfavorites! Please continue to review and let me know what you think. 

It was really hard to write about Remy and Betsy...but I think that it turned out pretty well. And finally Remy and Rogue managed to have a decent conversation and spend a little bit of quality time with each other. I don't know about you but this chapter's left me with lots of questions...How long will the truce last? Did anyone check the time constraints on it? Will Rogue go out with Joseph? Will Remy make the same mistake twice? Will Remy ever show his eyes to Rogue? And why did he show them to Betsy of all people?


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

**_Damn, baby  
you frustrate me_**

**John Mayer, Wonderland**

It was two in the morning before they bid each other goodnight, and regardless of the early morning hour, she was sad to see the evening end. They had sat at the kitchen table, guzzling sodas despite Remy's rather vocal disapproval for anything containing less than an ounce of alcohol.

"Makes me sleep better," he had explained and ruthlessly shoveled through the pantry, hell-bent on finding some form of alcoholic beverage.

She had just watched—head propped in hands—until he finally gave up the pointless hunt. "Ah told ya. The Professor doesn't keep liquor on hand."

"De hell he doesn't," Remy chuckled, wiping invisible dust from his chest. "How else do you s'pose he handles bein' a telepath in a building full of hormone-raging teen-agers? Prob'ly has to self-medicate on a reg'lar basis."

She shook her head. "The Professor would nevah—"

He waved it aside. "'Course not," then dove back into the pantry. A second later he had emerged with two sodas, a pack of cookies, and an evil smile. "Looky here. Not quite what I wanted, but it'll have to do."

And it did. They drank sodas and ate cookies for another hour or so before Remy glanced at the wall clock. His sigh was deep, contemplative, and he leaned back in his chair, watching her for a moment. Her eyes were a mesmerizing shade of green, he noticed, and continued to watch as she shoveled a few more cookies into her mouth.

His covered stare began to make her feel self-conscious and she brushed at her face with the backs of her hands. "What?" Did she have crumbs all over her face? Had she grown a second head? Why was he staring like that?

Cocking his head to one side, he said, "You're kind of pretty, y'know?"

She dropped her gaze, immediately busying herself with dusting the remains of her snack into an open palm. "Oh?"

He leaned in closer, his hand stilling hers. "Yeah." And he let go. It happened so fast, she wasn't even sure he had actually touched her. She hadn't stiffened, hadn't felt the incomprehensible fear pitted deep in her stomach that usually accompanied a singular touch. In fact, if she didn't still feel his heat on the back of her hand, she would have thought it was a dream. Strange. It wasn't a bad feeling.

"Should go to bed," he remarked, pushing his palms against the oak table before standing and stretching. He offered his hand. She hesitated. He grabbed her hand and hauled her up, instantly releasing her once she was on her feet. "I know I ain't always de best, Rogue, but you don' have to be 'fraid of me. I wouldn't hurt a fly." He grinned.

"You knocked Joe out cold."

"He's not a fly," came the easy response and his lips rolled back into an amused smile. "B'sides, at de moment I was under de impression dat mebbe he was more a killer bee."

"Yeah, well."

He looked at her, his grin slid south. "Why were you so afraid?" He had already asked that question, he knew, but he was hoping that perhaps the truce could carry them a little further.

She shifted; her hands cupped together in front of her and she studied them like she was appraising a diamond. "It doesn't matter."

And it wasn't any of his business, he reminded himself, but her emotions had been so strong… "Promise I won' tell nobody." He held up two fingers. "Scout's honor."

She snorted. "An' what kinda scout _were_ you?"

He grinned and pulled himself up straight. "You are lookin' at de proud recipient of an Eagle Award!"

"Nuh-uh." The disbelief in her voice made him smirk.

"Sure are," he insisted, puffing out his chest and throwing back his shoulders, "I swiped it off de boy scout myself!"

"That's about what Ah figured," but she was smiling up at him.

It was a nice smile; he hadn't really seen it before. "That mean you don' trust me?"

"No. It means Ah know better than to trust you. But Ah ain't ever been a quick learner." She moved toward the door, flipping off the kitchen's light as she left the room. Remy followed, his footsteps were imperceptible and when she turned around she was surprised to find herself eye-level with his chest. She thought he was still standing in the darkened kitchen. "Wow. You're real quiet."

He shrugged. "How else d'ya t'ink I got dat Eagle off'a him? But you, Miss'ippi, are avoidin' de question: why were you afraid?"

"You ever almost die before?"

He stopped, an eyebrow rose into his fringed bangs. "I guess I'd need your definition of dying. Seems to diff'rent people it means diff'rent t'ings."

"Ah mean actual death. When your heart stops beating. Dead."

He shook his head. She continued, leading him down the hallway and toward the staircase. "Ah did. My death would have been—a means to an end," she choked back a humorless laugh and instead wrapped her arms around herself. "It just so happens that Joe's related to one of the people responsible for my near-death experience."

He inhaled sharply. That would definitely do it, he agreed silently. If he ever met up with someone who was related to a person who tried to kill him, he'd be less than ecstatic to meet his or her acquaintance. The difference between Rogue and himself was that while she was willing to give Joe a chance, he'd probably bail…or end up sleeping with them…or both… That seemed to fit his track record pretty well.

He flipped through his mind, remembering the information he had found in Xavier's confidential files about Rogue. She had been in something called the 'Liberty Island Incident' days after enrolling at the school. Perhaps that was the near death experience? The file hadn't given any more pertinent information than to name the event, but Remy was sure if it was the one Rogue mentioned, Xavier would have cross-referenced it in another, more secure folder. That was one thing about Xavier: the man was organized. Too bad he trusted people. He felt a pang. It wouldn't really be right to infiltrate the computer system twice in less than a week's time—he'd have to wait a little while until Xavier and Scott weren't wound so tightly.

"Well, this is my wing," her voice pulled him back into the corridor. She was standing toward the mouth of the women's dormitories. Her wild hair tangled down her back and spilled across the front of one shoulder, successfully protecting the skin of one exposed arm from his view. She was nervously messing with her hands, winding them over and under and around each other in an erratic type of dance.

She looked so innocent—like a child in a store whose mother promised a surprise if she kept her hands to herself—the way she looked with cookie crumbs speckled against her porcelain skin…He doubted he had ever looked like that. Not even as a child, he grimaced, had he been innocent. But then, he grew up on the streets. It was plain she didn't, and he was glad for her. Wouldn't have been right for her to get a double whammy of a crap childhood and uncontrollable, untouchable powers. Yes, he decided, he was glad her childhood had been normal.

"Remy?"

He jumped. "Sorry. Well—good night, Rogue," he swept into a low bow.

She smiled. "Good night, Remy." She turned toward her hall.

"Rogue?"

She stopped, her face flushing of its own accord and she was not sure why. "Yes, Remy?" It was almost breathless.

"You still got crumbs on your face."

X

"Rise and shine, Clementine!" Kitty's singsong voice filled the air and she felt her covers being pulled from her face. "Time to get up!"

Rogue groaned, flipping to her stomach and crushing her pillow over her head. "Go away." There was no way it was time to get up. She hadn't even heard her alarm. Kitty had finally gone over the deep end.

The brown-haired, brown-eyed young woman huffed loudly and Rogue envisioned her standing over the bed with hands firmly planted on hips and an annoyed look marring her normally pretty face. "C'mon, Rogue! It's six o'clock!"

"Six!" She peeked from under her pillow, her eyes searching her nightstand for the red digital display of her clock. "Can't be."

"Yeah, well, it is. You slept right through your alarm." She dipped her head to look into Rogue's hidden eyes. "Musta been one helluva dream." Eyebrows waggled up and down before a girly giggle bubbled from her lips and she yanked the pillow away from her friend. "Now, get up!"

Rogue was stunned; the ceiling light seemed so bright that her retinas ached and she shielded her eyes with her hands. "What're ya talkin' about?" She pushed her covers from her legs and made to stand up. She yawned and collapsed back to the bed. "Gawd, Ah'm tired."

"You had this big smile on your face," Kitty explained, shuddering dramatically, "Creeped me out a little." She tossed a towel at her friend and dragged her up, her hands safely hidden in the downy folds. "How can you be tired? You went to bed at nine." She shoved Rogue toward their bathroom. "You better hurry; I have a feeling you're gonna have to be on your game today. Mr. Lebeau," Rogue stiffened and turned to look at her roommate, "hot as he is, isn't very responsible. Did you know that he was supposed to go out with JP and Ororo last night but stood them up? And they didn't even act surprised. I would have been pissed."

As she continued her ramble, Kitty did not seem to notice the widening green eyes or the crawling pink flush at the sound of Remy's name. Rogue was thankful for that; she didn't want to share their midnight meeting with anyone. She had enjoyed the time. He was…nice…for lack of a better word, a side she had not seen the previous day during class and for a moment, she wanted to remember him that way. Nice. Because as Kitty explained, she was certain today would be like yesterday, and he would be…not nice…again.

It made her a little sad and she nodded at the other girl and disappeared into their bathroom for her shower. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and made a face. A red imprint from her blanket's seam ran down her cheek. Dark circles pooled under her eyes, paling her skin even more. And her russet hair was tangled and wild and standing on end.

And he said she was pretty.

X

Remy was not a morning person. But, he felt a certain amount of responsibility today…he needed to show up to class on time. His mind drifted to the previous night and he felt a tiny pinch of guilt for the way he had acted in class. He thought about the gloves she had worn to the roof and about his sunglasses. Maybe they were not as different as he thought. No. He shook his head. He was going to be on time because they had made a truce. But it wasn't for her, he thought as he grabbed a towel and slipped into the bathroom, it was because of her. Because he knew she wouldn't expect it. And he liked to keep people off balance. Made it harder to understand his motivations—to understand him. Kept him safe. Yeah. That was it. But it wasn't for her.

The shower was hot. His eyes rolled back as he let the water pummel him. Dipping his head, he let it massage his scalp and plaster his brown hair to his neck and shoulders. He rubbed circles of soap into his chest, stopping momentarily to investigate the red-purple bruises that swirled down his abs, a topsy-turvy pathway toward his unmentionables. And while he had thoroughly enjoyed the erratic road trip at the time, he now knew that it had been a mistake. He grinned as he fingered a particularly purple welt. Too bad he wasn't a quick learner.

Rinsing off, he wrapped his towel around his waist and shoved the door open. His room was cool and he shuddered, but before he dropped the towel and finished drying himself, he caught the slightest movement on his bed.

This time, however, the visitor was not nearly as sexy.

"Where were you last night, _mon ami_? 'Ro and I came by an' knocked, _mais vous n'avez pas répondu._ (but you did not answer.)"

A hand went through his hair. "Somet'in' came up, JP. _Désolé_. _Je devrais m'être appelé_.(Sorry. I should have called.)"

"What came up?"

"Turn around." His finger circled in the air. "I gotta get changed."

JP leaned back on his elbows, his claim across Remy's bed clearly having been staked. "It's not like I've never seen one before."

"Yeah, well, you ain't seen mine. An' I'd like to keep it dat way." He twirled his finger again. "Turn. Around."

JP blew out an exaggerated sigh, but turned his head to face the wall. "Better?"

"An' close yoah eyes."

"Remy, I'm ashamed of you. When did you become such a homo-phobe? I thought that we were above all of this."

The younger man snorted, zipping his jeans for emphasis. "I am. But you're not." He pulled a black t-shirt over his head. "You can look now."

JP whistled. "Trying to impress someone?"

A fraction of a hesitation, but JP didn't seem to notice. "No. Trying to look professional."

"Generally professionals wear slacks and dress shirts." He hurried, seeing Remy's narrowed eyes, "but they let Logan get away with jeans so I'm sure you're fine." He pulled himself up to a sitting position, "You haven't answered my question."

Remy pulled on a pair of chukka boots and began tying the laces. "What question?"

"What came up?"

"What is dis? De t'ird degree? _Somet'in'_ came up."

JP held up his hand. Black silk dangled from one crooked finger. "Yes, well. You're _something_ forgot its bra."

Despite his initial shock at JP's discovery, Remy had to give the girl credit for knowing how to secure a callback. She was clearly not an amateur. He appreciated her skill; almost matched his own.

"Remy?" The black lingerie shook in front of his face. "What the hell are you doing? You haven't even been here a month and you're already picking your next ex?"

"Dat's what I t'ought you'd say. Only t'ought it'd be in French."

His friend shook his head in disbelief. "What're you up to? And why aren't you still asleep? 'Ro made me come get you up so you wouldn't miss any of your classes. Are you planning to torture Rogue some more? 'Ro'll kill you if you are."

"Non!" The burst was too hurried and JP raised a suspicious eyebrow. He explained, "No, me an' 'er, we called a truce."

Blue eyes narrowed and he asked in disbelief, "When?"

"Last night."

JP's eyes grew to the size of platters before he shrieked and dropped the brassiere like it was acid. One look to the tousled sheets and he leapt to his feet. "Oh, _mon cher Dieu_! (Oh, my dear God!)" He stared down his friend. "How…? How…is that even…possible?"

Remy, for his part, was having a difficult time following his friend's wild gesticulations and half-murmurs. He leaned forward, brow furrowing, as he tried to decode the hidden meaning. About the time JP had found his voice, Remy was violently shaking his head.

"_Non_! No! _Baisez-vous stupide_? (Are you fucking stupid?) She'd be de last person I'd wan' in my bed! No! _Absolument non. Jamais_. (Absolutely not. Never.) We made de truce _after_ de somet'in' came up." He felt a knot the size of his fist settle in his stomach. He shouldn't have been so emphatic…never was a long time.

JP clutched his heart, but his breathing slowed to that of a normal pace. "_Je ne sais pas qui m'a effrayé plus. En le croyant vous et le Coquin aviez ... vous savez ... ou qu'elle vous avait laissés_. (I don't know which scared me more. Thinking that you and the Rogue had...you know...or that she had let you.)"

X

She ran her hands through her wet curls, silently berating herself for her irresponsibility. She had not done even half the things she had planned. In fact, the only things she had done consisted of bathing, dressing, and setting up her room. She didn't even have on what Scott would consider proper professional attire. Instead of a skirt suit, she wore a pair of faded blue jeans, green flip-flops, and a green t-shirt that skimmed the top of her jeans and showed a sliver of pale skin when she held her arms over her head. Long white opera gloves covered her forearms, ending a few inches over her elbow and left a patch of skin the width of a man's hand exposed on both arms. She felt vulnerable showing that much skin, but no one ever touched her. Except for Kitty, they all kept their distance, kept a certain amount of restraint where she was concerned. Even Logan—with his macho attitude—tended to be wary of her.

But Remy isn't, she thought, remembering the quick pressure of his hand on hers, and locked her fingers together. He touched her. In fact, in the last week, he'd touched her more than anyone had in the past five years.

Shaking her head, she wondered how Scott was going to react to her choice of clothing. No doubt, he'd lecture her in the necessity of professional dress and its undeniable place in the classroom. Funny, he never lectured Logan on his choice of clothing. And the feral mutant wore jeans and a beat up leather jacket all the time. But, it stood to reason, that while she could take Scott out with a single brush of her fingers, she was far less likely to actually do it. Logan, on the other hand, just needed one ill-placed criticism over his wardrobe to send him into an adamantium-slashing frenzy. Correction: one ill-placed criticism over his wardrobe from _Scott Summers_.

Maybe she could just blame her menstrual cycle…

"_Bonjour_, Miss'ippi."

'Cause her hormones sure felt out of whack.

When she looked up, he was leaning against the doorframe, thumbs hooked in his front pockets, and sunglasses firmly in place. His longish hair hung to his earlobes and wiped across the mysterious dark lenses that constantly hid his eyes. He reminded her of the proverbial teen-age heartthrob-outcast. The bad boy. The one all the girls wanted. And she couldn't help but want him too.

He sidled up to her, a smile flickering against the corners of his lips. "Mornin'." It came in a low purr and she realized he was standing ever so close to her.

"You lost?" She fought her smile and pointedly glanced at the clock.

He chuckled, moving past her and perching himself atop the teacher's desk. "Dis is French I, ain't it?"

"_Ouí_."

He smiled. She was shocked to see two dimples winking at her from his shadowed cheeks. "_Bon_."

The classroom looked like it had yesterday, he noted. Five rows of chairs with five chairs in each row faced him. Along the perimeter of the room, housed on desks he was certain were purchased off the back of a truck, were up-to-the-date computers. He snorted. The moment something was labeled 'up-to-the-date' it already had one foot in the grave.

Behind him, he saw that Rogue had already prepared for their first class. Across the board, written in a flowing hand, was the in-class assignment. The students were to answer three questions in French and then share their answers with a partner.

He ran his eyes across the directions. A murmured _hmmm_ escaped his lips.

"What?" She looked from the board to his face. "Did Ah forget somethin'?"

He shook his head and offered a smile. "_Non_. I was jus' tryin' to decide why you needed a co-teacher 's all."

She licked her lips; they plumped forward. He swallowed. "Well, now," she started, an impish grin spreading across her face. Her lips. "Ah reckon you're hear to pronounce things for me."

X

_Aww, hell_. A twinge of guilt pinched his stomach and he leveled his covered gaze at the smirking kid in the left-handed desk. The cards he had been shuffling stilled in his hands and he dropped them into one of his pockets before leaning forward and shifting his attention to the young woman standing frozen in front of said kid.

The classroom's regular bustling had quieted to unnaturally low levels as everyone held their collective breaths to see what would happen next.

"'Scuse me?" Her sweet southern accent could have dropped a tyrannosaurus, but, Remy winced, apparently the _jeune homme_'s (young man's) brain wasn't quite up to par with the thunder lizard's faculties.

"I said, 'I didn't feel like doing my homework.'"

She folded her arms across her chest and leaned her chin to rest against her clavicle. "Ah heard what you said, David, but Ah'm more concerned with why you said it."

He slouched in his seat "Why should I do your assignments? It's not like they matter." His gaze flickered toward Remy. "Besides, you don't even know what you're doin'."

At this, Rogue stiffened, her porcelain skin flushed with anger. Remy narrowed his eyes and glanced at the clock behind him. He wasn't even present for this class yesterday. Guess his less than professional demeanor had rocketed across the mutant grapevine. Great. And just when he'd hoped that maybe the truce could be extended…

"An' why would you think that?" She threw a glare over her shoulder, successfully nailing Remy to his chair.

David's eyes followed the same path. "Well, Mr. Lebeau—"

"Wh-oa! Wait a minute!" He was out of his seat and next to Rogue in under a second. "Don' you go blamin' me."

David was taken aback. "But, Mr. Lebeau, you said—"

"What I said was totally inappropriate, but de diff'rence is dat I was criticizin' a peer an' you, _you_ are paddlin' up shit creek."

"Remy!" She admonished, hiding the grin with a disapproving hand.

"_Desolé_." He looked back to the boy. "No matter how you may feel, you don' have de right to talk dat way to a teacher." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "'Specially one what can make your life a livin' nightmare. How many years 'fore you graduate?"

David's eyes widened and glanced over Remy's shoulder to an annoyed Rogue. "I'm a freshman," he swallowed.

"_Mon Dieu_!" Remy clamped a hand over his forehead. "I don' know if'n I can save you."

Again a swallow. "What would you do? I mean, if you were me?"

"_P'tite homme_ (little man), if'n I was you, I wouldn't be fool 'nough to sass a teacher." Inside his boots, he crossed his toes. "But maybe I can work somet'in' out."

He caught her elbow, his bare fingers mere inches from her poison skin, and she tried to shake him off, afraid that one false move would render him unconscious and fill her brain with his past. And, she didn't want that. She wanted to learn about him from him—the way they had talked last night…

Remy held tight, not even the least bit thrown off by her silent protests, and steered her toward the board. He positioned her so she was watching the class and he was facing the wall. Leaning toward her, his warm breath tickled at her ear when he talked. "I was t'inkin' mebbe we could extend dat truce from last night."

_Really_? "Oh, yeah?"

He nodded. "Enjoyed our visit," he whispered off-handedly and continued before she could respond. "You're supposed to be starin' at 'em. Like we're havin' a real tough as nails discussion 'bout what t' do." He glanced at her face. "Look, Miss'ippi, I've seen de daggers, don' go gittin' all soft on me now. Stare at 'em real forceful like. Y'know, like de mean, river rat you are."

Her head whipped around and he smiled at the narrowed slits.

"Right. Jus' like dat." He pushed on her arm, urging her to face forward once more. "See, I feel like I owe you. Dat kid—he's my fault. I was totally out o' line yesterday. But you—you can be very frustratin'—"

"An' you're a walk in the park." She could feel the heat of his hand through her opera glove, could feel his grip tighten. Each finger stretched further around her arm, drawing it in to his hold until she wasn't sure if it was his pulse hammering away or if it was hers.

He chuckled. "Maybe I'll take you on one if you calm down long 'nuff for me to get my idea out." His touch was like fire. It sent warm shivers down her skin and they burrowed into her spine until every nerve was focused on his presence. Somewhere the pulse quickened.

"Ah don't need your help. Ah can handle this kid on my own." His grip relaxed; she regretted the words instantly.

But he bobbed his head in agreement. "_Ouí_. But you lack de necessary…_nuances_…of workin' wit' people."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Again her head swiveled toward him and again he shook her attention back to the front with a squeeze of his hands. Again she felt the quickening of the pulse—his or hers?

"What it means, Miss'ippi, is dat you'll just gripe at 'im, give 'im extra homework, and be done wit' it. I prefer a more…lasting lesson."

Her entire body was on fire. _Thump, thump, thump_! She could feel the flush rolling into her cheeks and she was unable to stop it. _Thump, thump, thump_! More importantly, she didn't want to stop it. _Thump, thump, thump_! That would mean breaking the connection. _Thump_…Dousing the fire. _Thump_…He said she was pretty. _Thump_…

"What're you gonna do? Kiss him?" As soon as she said it, she wanted to die. Just curl up under her desk and die. It was her pulse pounding in her ears. Not his, not his.

One eyebrow reached into his bangs, and she wished she could see his eyes. It would be so much easier to gauge him if she could just see his eyes. His grip slackened; mixed with the warmth from his still present fingers, she could feel the cool air swirling through the crevices of their connection.

_Oh gawd_…

A smile slid into view. "As lastin' a lesson as dat'd be," he joked, his hand completely leaving her to slide down the side of his leg, "dat's not really my department." He raised his voice, his attention turning to the class once more. "I was t'inkin' a danger room run would be a fair consequence f'r disrespectin' a teacher." The slow grin would have given Logan the creeps.

X

He couldn't believe this was happening. Well, now that wasn't entirely true. He wasn't all that shocked by Remy's involvement in the situation, but Rogue—Rogue had always shown a more level head. He wondered how Remy had managed to rub off on her, and then shuddered, a disquieting image wedging itself into his brain.

"C'mon, Scotty," Remy drawled, his hands locking behind his head as he leaned further down in his chair and propped his feet on top Scott's desk. "It'll be good for 'im."

Rogue stood toward the back of the room, her hands tugging self-consciously on her t-shirt. "It's not a totally bad idea, Scott."

The principal glared at Remy's boots before sparing a glance to the quivering boy standing between the young teachers. "I don't know…" he began. Was it just him or was David's skin turning green? "The Danger Room wasn't really designed for the younger students…"

"Look Scott," Remy leaned forward, his feet dropping with his voice, "'M not sayin' dat de kid should do a real run, jus' an obstacle course or somet'in'. No pow'rs, 'course. Wouldn't want him to—hey! Wha's your pow'r?"

David swallowed, his eyes bulging from his sallow skin. Yeah, he was definitely turning green. "Well, I—it's—hard—to explain."

"Try me." Came the curt response.

"I blow stuff up?"

"Oh, yeah? Me too." Remy nodded, clearly impressed. "Maybe we could do a run t'gether."

And the kid was getting greener by the minute.

Scott shook his head. "No. No one's doing any runs." David's color started to return to peach. "Except you." The green returned. "But not in the Danger Room. You'll participate in a field obstacle course. No powers permitted. I do not tolerate defiant behavior toward our teachers, David. If it continues, I'll let Mr. Lebeau have that little partner run. Understood?"

David shook his head, his eyes unable to meet the principal's face. "Yes, sir."

"Good," Scott shuffled some papers on his desk. "You'll do the course tonight. Mr. Lebeau and Ms. Rogue will supervise."

"What!" Rogue spoke up from the back. "Scott, Ah can't. Tonight—Ah've got a—" she looked at David and pulled herself straight up, "an appointment."

"Well, I'm sorry, Rogue," he looked up from his desk. "You're the senior teacher. You have to be present. You'll have to reschedule your…appointment."

"Yes, sir," she ground out.

David left the room first, jetting down the hall like his tail was on fire. Remy bowed, eliciting an eye roll from Scott who waved him away, and turned to his co-teacher. "Dat went well, huh?"

Her eyes narrowed to thin green slits and she looped her thumbs through the belt loops. "Brilliant," then turned on her heel and stalked away.

The grumble was clearly not what he had expected. Not that he'd expected much. But this was so far from the parade he'd envisioned that he followed her with a furrowed brow and confused expression. "Pardon?"

She reeled on him, her hand shooting out and pushing him away from her. Caught off-guard, he allowed a step back before swiping away her fingers like they were nothing more than pesky flies.

"You're such an asshole!" She growled. "Now Ah gotta watch some obstacle course instead of going on my—" she struggled for the appropriate word, "—appointment."

He held his hands up. "You got some weird disease or somet'in'? What kind of appointment could you be going to at night—Oh," he grinned, "you got a date." For a moment he wondered if it was with Joseph. _Surely not_.

"Not now." Her eyes flashed. They were wild and bright, the green from her t-shirt kicking the hue up a notch.

His grin deepened at the sight.

X

Lunch consisted of a slab of something resembling meat and a chunk of something roughly the same consistency as mashed potatoes. He poked his fork suspiciously at both. He looked around the teacher's workroom, trying to determine where to sit. There was a seat near Rogue, but since Scott's office, she had refused to speak to him. No, scratch that, she had asked if he had seen the playbooks for the drama class. Which he hadn't, so that didn't really count.

He did not understand her. He had lived up to his part of the truce. Had surpassed it, really. Fixing any problems he had unwittingly brought about hadn't actually been outlined in the rules, but he thought he'd do the right thing and own up to them. It was his fault that David thought it would be okay to openly defy her. He had left her open to that sort of behavior when he had insulted her in front of the class. He thought a physical consequence would get the others' attention and put an end to the problem before it could really get going. If nothing else, he was pretty sure the gesture would get her off his back for a little while and he could lay low, enjoy the relative ease of his new gig. But, no, this _femme_ had to be bipolar. And so, apparently, was he, he cursed, trying to shake the image of Rogue pushed up against his back, arms hooked around his waist, wind blowing through her curls…He suddenly wished he had his Harley.

He caught a glimpse of purple and smirked as a whole different kind of _femme_, and just the thing he needed to distract his mind, passed him. Her skin grazed his with the softness of a seductive sigh. Her eyes checked his face and he dipped his sunglasses to allow her a peak at his red eyes. She licked her lips. "Sorry luv," she breathed, her arm lingering at his.

"_Pas un problème_. (Not a problem.)" He pushed the glasses back up his nose, and hooked her hand in his. Kissing her knuckles, his mouth hitched in a lopsided grin, "See ya, Betts."

She smiled. _Strawberry lips and all_.

He really was the world's slowest learner.

Turning, he slid into an empty seat beside JP. The latter raised an eyebrow. Remy inspected his lunch. "_Que se passe-t-il, mon ami_? (What's going on, my friend?)"

JP clicked his tongue. "_Bien, il y avait_ quelque chose_, mais il est parti maintenant_. (Well, there was _something_, but it's gone now.)"

X

She stiffened the moment he walked into the room. She hoped he wouldn't sit with her. He had put her in an awkward position that morning. She could either go along with his discipline plan or come off like a pansy. Neither settled well with her. She had been glad when Scott had suggested the obstacle course. Until it was decided that she had to be there. It wasn't even her freaking idea. It was that stupid Louisiana boy's. But she couldn't voice it, because then she looked like she wasn't capable of dealing with the child's insubordination. _Stupid Cajun_. Should've just let the truce die last night instead of trying to stretch it out.

She opened her water. She was being ridiculous. There was no reason for her to be this angry. She didn't mind the idea of spending the evening with Remy—in fact, she sort of liked it, but she had promised Joe that she'd go out with him tonight. She had promised. Besides, Joe liked her, wanted to date her, even though she couldn't touch. One look at Remy and she knew he relied on touch. Hell, she was untouchable, and he still touched her. It was ridiculous to be attracted to him. Sure, he was nice. Sure, he was handsome. But he didn't want her. He wanted someone he could be…intimate with. And she had promised Joe. That's what this was about. Keeping her promises.

Kitty dropped down beside her, a confused look playing on her face. "That was weird."

"What was?"

"Remy and—"

"Oh, gawd, Kit! Ah don't want to hear about Remy Lebeau at this moment. Ah've got bigger problems."

Her friend leaned across the table. "What's wrong?"

"Ah have to supervise an obstacle course session tonight."

"Oh, yeah, I heard about that. What a good idea for discipline. How'd you come up with it?"

Rogue stared at her before shaking her head dismissively. "Never mind. The thing is, Ah'm supposed to go out with Joseph tonight. Remember?"

"Well, now you've got a decent excuse not to." Kitty peeled back the lid to her yogurt and licked it clean. "Worked out pretty well for you."

"No. You don't understand. Ah have to go out with him at least once. If Ah don't then Ah'm some snob that can't get past his relatives an' he's this self-sacrificing wonder-man who was willing to date the 'untouchable Rogue.'" She stabbed her…meat? "What am Ah gonna do?"

"Rogue, honestly, I don't understand you. Do you really want to go out with him?" Kitty set her yogurt and spoon on the table. "Or are you self-destructive? Nobody's going to think less of you if you don't want to go out with him. Especially now that we know who his father is." She set her brown eyes in an unwavering gaze. "Do you even like him?"

"Ah did 'fore Ah knew about Magneto," it was hurried, ashamed. "Don't you see? Ah haveta give him a chance. It's not fair to him otherwise."

"But is it fair to you?"

X

"Let it go, _mon ami_."

"I can't understand you, Remy. What do you see in those women?"

"Eat your—what are those? Potatoes?" He dug his spoon into the yellowish mass, sniffed, shrugged, and popped a bite in his mouth.

"Scrambled eggs. And don't try to change the subject."

"Eggs? Really? Dey don' taste like eggs."

"Do you categorically choose women who are going to break your heart?"

His spoon froze halfway to his mouth. The eggs slipped back to his plate. A sigh, then, "Don' got nuthin' left t' break."

X

"Drop it, Kit."

"It's one thing if you think you might actually like him. It's another if your following some twisted sense of obligation."

Rogue pinched the bridge of her nose. "Ah told you that until Ah found out about Magneto, Ah liked him. He's been nothing but nice. Ah want to give him a chance."

Kitty's brow cinched together. "That's fine, but it's okay if you don't."

X

He bared his teeth. "JP, I'm warnin' you…"

"All I'm saying is that had we known what a number Belle was going to do to you, 'Ro and I would have put a stop to it right away."

His annoyance was beginning to drift toward anger and he tilted his sunglasses so that JP could see the red glow of his eyes. "Jus' stop."

He continued to push. "Do you think _she's_ still bothered by it?"

X

"Kitty…" she warned.

The brunette continued as if she were invisible. "I mean, I would be freaked out. What if he ends up being just like his father?"

"That's enough."

"He could be playing us." Her eyes widened as a new conspiracy theory was formed. "Maybe he's trying to get close to you so—"

"Stop!" "_Arrêtez-vous_!"

The conversations in the workroom died immediately. Curious eyes peeked at the young man and woman standing on opposite ends of the room, each gripping the table in front of them and glaring down at their lunch partners. Remy recovered first, sliding a grin across his face as he pushed in his chair. Offering his hand, he called to her, "Rogue? Ready t' head back? Di'n't you say somet'in' 'bout findin' books for de art 'preciation class?"

She blinked at him, confused by their simultaneous outbursts. Her eyes took in the faces of her fellow teachers before returning to his outstretched hand. It was an easy out, designed for both of them, and she decided to take it. Catching his arm, she spared a glance to Kitty. "You are exactly right. Almost forgot." She let him usher her from the room.

"Well, that was weird," Jubilee announced and cracked her gum emphatically before turning back to Logan and pointing at his tray. "What are those anyhow?"

His eyes slid from the doorway and he followed her gaze. "Eggs." He snarled.

She leaned in closer, sniffing, "You sure?"

Kitty licked her lips, her eyes downcast as she waited for the rest of the teachers to return to their own conversations. Glancing up, she caught JP's eye and sighed. He beckoned to her.

Sliding into Remy's abandoned chair, she stirred her yogurt noncommittally. "JP."

He tipped his head. "Kitty."

She swallowed a spoonful of pink before letting the silverware clank against her tray. "Okay, so what gives? I saw Remy and Ms. Braddock."

JP folded his hands and leaned forward. No way was he going to gossip about his best friend. At least not without a little persuasion, "What's happening with Rogue and Joseph?"

She huffed. "He's Magneto's son."

"Remy's dating her."

Both mouths dropped to form o's.

JP shrugged it off first. "Magneto's son? What's she gonna do?"

"Date him. Can you believe it? Remy could do better than that violet tramp."

"Really? After all that Magneto did to her? I find it rather surprising that she'd date his son. Honey, Remy could have anybody he wanted."

"See, I think so too. But she's so stubborn. Says that she has to give him a chance because otherwise she's not being fair. Don't you mean 'any girl' he wanted?"

"Fair to whom? Kitty, do you honestly believe Remy's appeal extends only to girls?"

X

He pulled her along. His smile decreased in intensity with every footstep. By the time they reached the classroom, he was scowling.

"Hey!"

Slowing down, he glanced at the girl squirming behind him. She held up her hand; his grip nearly swallowed it.

"It's okay. You can let go now." Her voice was quiet, her eyes soft.

His hand tingled and he dropped his hold like a hot coal. He rubbed the feeling out, his hand swiping up and down his jeans. "I di'n't hurt you, did I?"

Her curls shook. "Didn't need that hand anyway."

He chuckled humorlessly. "Yeah. Well."

"Rogue!"

She turned toward her name, visibly stiffening at the sight of the white-haired man moving toward them. "Hey, Joe."

Her sudden awkwardness obvious, Remy turned to molasses—sweet but sticky—as he offered a hand to the approaching man. "Joe," his Louisianan drawl poured pure sugar cane, "_desolé_ for yesterday." He tapped his temple with a finger, "Nerves."

A quizzical look and then Joe was shaking the extended hand. "Of course, Mr. Lebeau. I understand."

"No hard feelin's?" He was laying it on thick.

She was going to need to visit a dentist.

Joe's smile was tight, unsure. "No, I understand that you were acting on instinct." Blue eyes shifted toward Rogue, "I had just given her some rather…unsettling…news. I can see where her thoughts would come off as conflicted."

Remy's grin wavered the tiniest bit. _More like petrified_.

"Rogue," Joe's eyes secured her to the floor, "I haven't been able to speak with you since yesterday," he glanced at Remy, "but I was really hoping that you would still be willing to go out tonight," Remy's eyebrow arched, "for dinner."

So she had been planning to go out with him after all? It seemed so strange to date someone whose family had almost killed you. Remy's brow furrowed. He thought about Belle. When they'd first started dating, her brother, Julien, had threatened him with a meat cleaver. If Julien hadn't belonged to a gang known affectionately as the Assassin's Guild, he probably wouldn't have seen the parallel to Rogue's situation. Perhaps he wasn't one who should talk.

"Ah would," she glared at her co-teacher, "but Ah've got an obstacle course to supervise." Her tone pumped venom.

He was glad for the course, Remy decided. He wasn't sure if he wanted her going on a date with Joseph…she'd been so afraid, after all…

"We could go out after that."

His head snapped up at that and he tossed a guarded look toward her. As she was contemplating Joe's offer, a pearly tooth peeked out from under the swell of her upper lip, and she raked it across the pink skin. Her tongue flickered from her mouth, gathering in her lips, tasting them. After a heartbeat, they plumped out, swollen, and red as wine.

Clearing his throat, he excused himself in a raspy voice. "Forgot my water."

Joe didn't even spare him a glance as the Cajun shouldered past. "What do you think, Rogue? I know that you have every reason to be wary of me given my father and your past situations, but please give me a chance. I'm not my father. I would never use you like that."

She sighed, relenting. "Okay. Let me see what Ah can work out." She offered a smile. "An' Ah know you're not like him, Joe. You're here."

X

The obstacle course was set up on the mansion's grounds and followed all protocol according to Scott. Which, Remy inferred, meant that absolutely no fun of any kind was permitted. There were no smoke bombs, no walls to scale, and no foam missiles—to say he was disappointed would be a gross understatement.

He gestured to the field in front of him and raised an eyebrow at his friend. "What de fuck, Scott?"

A pair of red sunglasses met Remy's black ones. "What do you mean?" The total lack of understanding raised his blood pressure several points.

He shook his hands, splaying them the length of the field, before dipping his shades and letting his eyes blaze. "Where's de fuckin' course? Where's de foam projectiles? Where's de balance beam? Where are de smoke bombs? What kind of obstacle course is dis?"

Scott's jaw twitched. "This is an obstacle course designed for those students who have yet to receive adequate training. Remy, you can't possibly expect a child of fourteen to be able to handle an obstacle course like that."

He poked his finger in Scott's chest, "Are you kiddin' me? How old d' you t'ink I was?" His voice dropped to an accusatory whisper, "_Dieu_, de hippies got to ya."

"Not everyone that comes to this school is training for the X-Men. Some are simply here to learn in an environment that doesn't single them out for being mutants."

"You are perpetuatin' pussies."

"That's enough, Remy. Not everyone wants to fight for mutant rights; some just want to learn how to survive in a world that fears and hates them. We have to respect that choice. Now," he clapped his hands together, signifying the end of the conversation, "do you want to focus on what the course does offer?"

"Unless it comes with a stocked mini-fridge, I couldn't give a fuck."

Scott grimaced, but moved toward the field, a mumbling Remy followed him. "Here's where David will start." He motioned to a stationary bar six feet from the ground. "The height is adjustable," he explained, "I think that it should be at the right level for David. He needs to do a series of pull-ups. I was thinking that ten should do it."

"Why stop dere," came the mumbled response, "have 'im do one an' I'll jus' finish it up for him. Wouldn't wan' 'im t' break a nail or nuthin'."

"Where's Rogue?" Remy's sulking was beginning to wear on his nerves, and as much as he liked his friend, he was seconds away from lifting his shades and ripping the Cajun a new one.

"She's goin' on a—" he rolled his eyes, "_appointment_—after de course. Said she was gonna go 'head an' get ready 'fore de 'citement. Coulda saved her de trouble."

The principal forged on, stopping in front of a set of eight tires lying in a staggered line of twos. "He'll have to run through these."

"Unless it's on his hands, I don' wan' talk 'bout it."

"Good grief, Remy! Not everyone came from the slums of New Orleans! David is a straight-laced kid from a suburban area outside St. Louis! He's never run with a gang! He has limited control over his powers! He's got blasts with the intensity of bombs flowing from his fingertips! Do you honestly think putting him in a stressful, militant environment would help him?"

"How 'straight-laced' is he if he openly defied his teacher?"

He rubbed his temples and blew out a breath of air. "Moving on." He came to a balance beam. Beside it was a box of foam balls. "He has to walk across this without falling while you gently toss balls at him. If he falls, he has to start again. If he catches a ball, he has to dispose of it within five seconds or he has to start again."

Remy seemed somewhat appeased. "What if a ball touches him?"

"He still gets to cross."

"Figures." Appeasement not attained.

He couldn't be around Remy for one more minute. "Look, Lebeau, after this, you go to the open area. David has to army-crawl to the swimming pool. Then you throw in those sinking sticks and he has to collect them. For everyone that he collects, he gets a second shaved off his running time."

"I got a better idea." Scott prepared himself for the inevitable sarcasm. "Why don' I jus' t'row in silver dollars? Den he can turn a profit from dis sham of a discipline builder."

Scott's eyes flashed.

Remy grinned.

"You're a dick."

"You're jus' jealous I got one."

"Too bad no one wants it."

"Now, don' go gittin' down on yourself. You'll always be someone t' me."

Scott flipped him the bird and stormed off toward the mansion.

A tap on his shoulder brought his attention down a foot.

"Mr. Lebeau?"

He sighed. "David?"

A gulp. "Is this the obstacle course?"

He sighed, "Yep."

"It looks really hard."

_You've got to be kidding_. "For one of us."

David looked around. "Where's Ms. Rogue? I—I wanted to apologize to her. I was a real jerk. Thanks for savin' me though."

He pursed his lips. "She should be here in a second, David."

"Hey! Remy? Er—I mean, Mr. Lebeau?"

He swiveled toward the voice. A smirk appeared over his lips. "_Chaton_? (Kitten?)" He greeted the brunette, admiring the way her trim body moved towards him. "To what do I owe de pleasure? Aren't you Rogue's roommate? She comin'?"

"Uh," Kitty glanced at David then hooked her arm through Remy's and steered him toward one of the obstacles. "I'm supposed to give you something." She held out a piece of folded notebook paper.

He raised an eyebrow, but snatched the note from her hand and opened it. "'Your idea. Your job. Rogue.'"

_So, dat's de way you wan' play it, huh_? He chuckled.

The truce was off.

* * *

So sorry about the long wait! I was having technical difficulties--you know how those wardrobe malfunctions can be! But finally--**finally--**I've updated! I want to thank everyone who reviewed the story. I so appreciate the feedback. I also want to thank those who listed my story or me as a favorite. What an honor! So, thanks:)

So...(taps tips of fingers together)

The truce is off, huh? What exactly is **that** going to mean for Rogue? Whywould she stand up Remy? I mean**, R-e-m-y**for goodness sake's! How is this "date" with Joe going to go for her? Will Remy allow his strawberry cravings to get the best of him? Did Betsy **really** secure a callback? How long will it be before JP rats out Remy's little something? And, most importantly, did anyone get food poisoning from those suspicious looking yellow clumps? Stay tuned for the answers!

Seriously, though, if the "eggs" made anyone sick, we really do need to call the health department...


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

**Sleight of hand and twist of fate**

**U2, With or Without You**

She was beautiful.

Her cream and tawny locks trailed between her shoulders, and ended in the middle of her back. Gone were the tumultuous curls; she had ironed them until they were slick as spit and spritzed them with a concoction guaranteed to make them gleam. She wore a simple black cocktail dress that ended mid-thigh and accentuated the length of her silky legs. White opera gloves ran up her arm, ending inches above her elbow. For fear that even the slightest exposure of skin might end in disaster, a shawl of black lace covered her bare shoulders, sweeping low against her back, and emphasizing the narrowness of her waist. With her hair slick and shining and her elegant style, she reminded him of a movie star during the silver screen's golden age.

Her glittering eyes blazed through an errant white lock and he swallowed.

Reaching across the table, his fingers caught the smooth line of hair. She stiffened at the closeness, and instinctively pulled away from his outstretched hand, her hair sliding through his fingers. Clearing her throat nervously, she tucked the strand behind her ear and offered a tight, apologetic smile.

"Sorry," she mumbled, wincing at his hurt expression. "Not used to people touching me."

His smile was pinched and he nodded. "Of course." He cleared his throat, "At the risk of sounding too forward, I have to tell you how beautiful you look tonight." He gestured to her hair. "You look like a movie star," he stammered, "I mean, your hair—I-I really like it like that."

She gave a bashful laugh, her fingers tangling into the sleek, straight lines of auburn. "Thanks, Joe."

He beamed; the blush on her cheeks caused his pulse to quicken.

X

He could have charmed her. Dipped his shades low on his nose and stared at her with his hypnotic gaze. She would have swooned, clung to him for support as her tongue became loose and rattled off whatever information he had wanted. Like, for instance, where the hell Rogue went and why did she leave him to baby-sit? But Kitty's wide brown eyes and girlish giggle reminded him too much of a child. And, even when he knew she was anything but an innocent bystander, he just couldn't bring himself to make her betray her friend. Not that she'd remember. But it was the details that bogged him down. Besides, if Stormy found out...

He must be getting soft.

That was the only explanation; and frankly, it pissed him off.

Why else would he be standing in the middle of a disappointingly unimaginative obstacle course tossing foam footballs at a kid atop a balance beam without first disrupting the toys' electrons? Getting. Soft. He blew out an exasperated breath and chunked the ball at David.

It hit the fourteen-year-old squarely in the stomach, knocking him off balance, and sent him sprawling to the dirt. "OUCH!"

"What a pity," Remy deadpanned, "you didn't make it across. Try again."

"Mr. Lebeau," the boy wheezed, holding his stomach as he dragged himself up from the ground. "Can I finish this tomorrow? I've been out here for hours."

His teacher clicked his tongue. "Now, David, you have to accept de consequences of your actions. Your punishment was to run dis obstacle course. Not half of it." He watched the boy's head drop and his shoulders slump. "But, I t'ink you learned your lesson, _hein_? Ain't gon' be disrespectful no more?"

David shook his head. "I promise, sir. No more disrespecting teachers. Ever."

He watched the boy's face, weighing the sincerity in his expression. After a moment he declared, "_Bon_," and watched as David sighed in relief and ran off toward the mansion. Probably wasn't good to let him off without finishing the course, Remy conceded, his eyes dragging across the free area David was supposed to army-crawl, but the urge to set explosive charges across the empty space would have been too much for him to ignore.

Then he'd have had to deal with Scott. Not that it would have been a problem. He'd had so many run-ins with the X-Men's captain in the past; it would have been like old times.

But if he played his cards right, kept that famous poker face in place, he might come out of this thing with the entire pot. Rogue had skipped out on her responsibility as the lead teacher. Directly disobeying the wishes of her principal—not to mention, the team captain—she was risking certain retribution. And he could have called her on it, tattling her indiscretion to Scott. Hell, he could have gotten Kitty to do it. Yeah, five seconds under his smoldering, crimson gaze, and she'd cluck like a chicken if he asked.

But Remy decided to keep Rogue's little escapade quiet. Which meant one thing: she owed him.

And he aimed to make sure that he got paid. In full.

He grinned wolfishly. Maybe he wasn't getting all that soft.

X

Rogue unfolded her menu and sputtered. "Joe, these prices are—"

He smiled, his hand reaching for her menu and lowering it. "Not a problem. This is our first date, Rogue. I'm not sparing any expense. If you want lobster, get it. If you want imported French wine, ask for it. This is your night."

"Do they have French wine at an Italian restaurant?"

He choked on his water, the glint of mischief in her eye rendering him incapable of drinking. "If you want it, I'll send them to Bordeaux myself."

She chuckled, capturing the hand on her menu and weaving her fingers through his. "Ah prefer a nice burgundy."

He swallowed, the feel of her hand in his sending his heart fluttering. "I meant what I said in the elevator."

Her brow furrowed, then, as if a light bulb turned on, she released her grip, gathering her hands in her lap. "What was that?"

He grabbed his chair, pulling it around the table until he was right beside her. A server walked past them, clicking his tongue in reprimand. Joe ignored it. "I want to kiss you, Rogue."

She bristled at his closeness, his honesty. "Like comas, do ya?"

He sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Not particularly. But I do like you. And I think you like me."

"Ah do like you, Joe. But Ah—Ah'm not ready to kiss you. Not until Ah have better control over my powers. Besides," her voice struggled to find its usually light tone, "what kind of a girl do ya think Ah am? Honestly! Kissing on a first date!" She pushed at his shoulder; he caught her hand.

"I think you're the most beautiful girl I've ever known."

X

He needed to unload some frustrations.

After a day of trying to be nice only to have it thrown back in his face with a very un-thank you note, he wanted nothing more than to blow something up. If the obstacle course had been worth its salt, he could have already released the boiling in his stomach. But as it was, he needed a strenuous workout a la the Danger Room.

He licked his lips. Maybe he could fight Scott. Or better yet, make him run that shit course and see how he liked it. Yeah, only he'd have to add a little spice in the program for Scotty-boy.

The sub-level's corridor glowed yellow under the fluorescent lights and he pushed the shades farther up his nose. There was something unnatural about lights that pulsated like that, he thought dismally, unnatural—like his eyes.

It had occurred to him that after being at Xavier's for a week, it would not be unheard of for him to start to feel comfortable, to relax. To show off his mutation in all its glory. The only person outside of his previous acquaintances to see his eyes was Betsy. He thought it was strange, but it didn't bother him for her to see them…He didn't really care what she thought about them. But the idea of showing them to someone else—Rogue, really—scared him. What if she screamed? What if she held that same overwhelming fear in the pit of her stomach that she had felt when Joe touched her shoulder? He didn't think he could handle that.

He pushed up the stairs to the control room, pausing momentarily to keep the door from swinging shut with a bang! Even though he wasn't trying to sneak, self-preservation born from years of heists and reconnaissance missions dictated a silent entry. He pulled the door to, listening for the light click, before moving up the stairs and stepping into the control room.

Long silver hair swept up in a ponytail bobbed in acknowledgement of his presence. "Remy." Ororo glanced over her shoulder, her blue eyes looking him up and down. "I was wondering when I'd get to talk to you."

He leaned against one of the tables surrounding the room's perimeter and surveyed the room. Not seeing anyone else, he pulled his shades off and tucked one earpiece into the collar of his shirt. "How you know it was me?" Just because he hadn't been trying to sneak up on anyone didn't mean he wanted everyone immediately alerted to his presence either. He tapped his temple, grinning broadly at his friend, "You telepathic now, _chére_?"

Those baby blues rolled and she shook her head. "If I was, Remy, I promise you, yours would be the last mind I would want to read." She returned his smile. "No one enters a room as quietly as you do, but no one reads the movement of air quite like me. I simply put two and two together."

"And what did you get?"

"Six feet and one inch."

"Ahhh, Stormy, you remembered." He rushed toward her, slinging his arms around her neck and hugging her back to him. "What say we blow this popsicle stand and go have some real fun?" He winked at her.

She shrugged him off. "You are a pain in the ass; did you know that?" But her smile betrayed her; she could never really be angry with him…even when he deserved it. "Where were you last night?"

Her asking that could only mean one thing: JP hadn't gotten to her yet. She didn't know about Betsy…or the bra…or the truce, for that matter. Not that he expected his friend to rat him out, but he'd known JP since they were children. Any information—even if it was boring—was hard for the Canadian-born gossip to pass up. And, Remy knew from experience that his love life was never considered taboo. In fact, he often wondered if JP and Stormy knew more about what was happening in his love life than he did.

It would be only a matter of time before his indiscretions from last night made it to her ears and she unleashed a bolt of lightning in his ass. Until then, he decided, he'd just play innocent. "Oh, you know, Stormy," he smiled as she shot him a glare, "de usual—robbin' banks, sleepin' wit' beautiful _femmes_, helpin' li'l ol' ladies cross de street."

Her mouth sagged a little at the corners. "You're so full of shit." She turned back to her monitor, her finger tapping out a command to the holographic program currently underway in the Danger Room.

He grinned, his half-truths worked about half the time. He was just glad that this time he was in the right half. Pulling a chair out from the table, he plopped down beside his friend. "Whatcha doin'?"

"I'm running an individual skills assessment." Her hands swept over the keyboard. "Should have already done her, but she insisted we wait until after school started." Ororo rolled her eyes. "This one is going to be trouble, Remy. I can feel it." She gestured to the monitor as the mutant in question took down her opponent with one quick jab. "Have you met Ms. Elisabeth Braddock yet?"

His eyes swept across the display and he felt the sharp breath escape his mouth. "She's my sparring partner," he admitted. He watched as she pulled her arm away from her fallen enemy. A long purple light—energy, he decided—extended from the heel of her hand. A second later, it was gone, pulled back into Betsy's arm with little less than a furrow of her brow. "What was dat t'ing?" It was a whisper; it was in awe—fear and awe.

Ororo leaned back in her chair and eyed him. The gesture did little to calm his quivering insides and he wondered why his Stormy would treat him so cautiously. "It's a telepathic spike," the answer came at last and he felt the frustration in his stomach be devoured with a sickening fear.

"A what?"

"A telepathic spike. Braddock is a telepath. Didn't Scott or Xavier tell you?"

"No." He hated telepaths—except for Xavier, but even the Professor unnerved him. And now Betsy was a telepath? And he had slept with her? Damn it. Had she tried to scour his brain? He didn't think so; there had been no push on his mental shields. Maybe she was okay? She was trying to become an X-Man after all… "How does dis spike t'ing work?"

Ororo shrugged her shoulders. "According to her file, she stabs it through her victim's brain and it scrambles their thought processes. Makes them practically comatose for about fifteen minutes." She shivered. "Violent if you ask me. Dangerous, even."

Remy stood up and walked to the observation window. Below him, Betsy was twisting in the air above her attacker. As she came down, that spike pushed from her hand. She thrust the violet energy toward his head. He was down in seconds. She glanced up, caught Remy's eye, and smiled. She waved a hand over the prostrate form of her victim, drawing her chin towards her shoulder; a mischievous grin split her face as she waited for his approval. He nodded; her smile broadened and she turned back toward her session, her hips waving good-bye.

He gritted his teeth as he watched her retreating form. She was dressed in a tight black leotard, but that wasn't what made him ache. No, that was the thin line of material running between two firm bronzed cheeks. Now that would be a damn fine way to get rid of his frustrations. Telepath or not, he decided, at that moment Betsy Braddock wouldn't need to read his mind to know what he was thinking.

X

The evening was perfect. Rogue looked at him from over her glass of wine, admiring the way his blue sweater set off his eyes and how they gleamed whenever he looked even vaguely in her direction. He caught her staring at him and offered her a genuine smile. She blushed, dropping her attention to her wine, and hiding her shy smile behind her glass.

"Dessert?"

She set her glass down and shook her head. "No way can Ah eat anything else."

He waved to an older woman carrying a basket of roses. "Then, I'll have to be creative," he said with a smile and picked the largest rose she had. "I would like to kiss you, Rogue," it was mumbled and he frowned when she stiffened at his words.

"Look, Joe, Ah already—"

He shook his head. "No. Just watch," and he kissed the velvety petals before presenting the flower to her. She smiled and set her luscious lips against the red rose.

"See?" He asked, triumphant. "We shared a kiss."

Her cheeks flamed and she hid behind the rose's outstretched petals. He had touched her without laying a hand on her and she was grateful to him. He was not overbearing or scary; he was nothing like his father. She could sense in him a true interest in her—and not just her well-being—**her—**as a partner, a lover. And it made her sad because as much as she wished she could reciprocate those feelings, she was well aware that somewhere, deep inside, she knew it didn't matter because she was already starting to crave touch. And she was afraid it wasn't his.

X

The temptation that was Betsy Braddock had been too strong to just ignore and Remy decided that in order to avoid making the same mistake twice he needed to get out. Of the room. Of the mansion. Of the neighborhood… He kissed Stormy's cheek, apologized for skipping out on another dinner, and beat it out of there. Fast. Because he didn't think it would take much to change his mind. Not with the way she had been dressed…

He decided to treat himself to a night on the town. He felt a shiver of guilt but ignored it. After all, what did it matter if he was late to class? **She **hadn't even bothered to show up tonight. There was no reason for him to feel responsibility toward her. He wasn't the one who broke the truce. That had been her call. He shook off the disappointment; he was being ridiculous. What did it matter to him if she had chosen an evening with Joe over one with him? Granted, Joe was interested in dating her and he had been assigned to her, but Joe had scared her… he had only humiliated her… He chuckled, pulling his Mustang into the parking lot of the first decent bar he saw. Maybe he couldn't blame her; it really had been a toss up—a lesser of two evils choice.

But he wanted to blame her. He wanted to blame her because he had enjoyed talking to her the night before. He wanted to blame her because she was so stupidly stubborn. He wanted to blame her because for the first time in a long time, she had made him want something he couldn't have…

When he'd left her with Joe in the hallway, he felt thirsty… But it wasn't water he wanted; he wanted a taste of those lips. The rest of their classes had been spent in a haze; all he could think about was how plump, how tempting, her mouth was when she spoke. It had caught him off guard. And that was something that never happened. And he blamed her for that too.

The bar's air was stagnant; cigarette smoke whispered through the air, blown in all directions through pouting, painted lips. Toward the right of the building, Remy saw three pool tables lined up under hanging lamps. A preppy group of twenty-somethings was attempting to hustle two older men. Remy shook his head; it was evident to him that the hustlers were getting hustled as he caught the feral grin the two shared. To the left of the bar, tables occupied by made-up girls and over-the-top men caught his attention. He grinned as several girls fluffed their hair and openly stared at him as he moved to the back of the room towards the bar.

A girl with thick blonde curls and fake eyelashes wiggled her hand at him. He smiled, enjoying the way her blue eyes glittered in the neon light of a beer sign. A tight-fitting black tube top fondled the swell of her breast. His eyes appreciatively followed the line of her body down to the fishnets of her thighs. He imagined how strong they would feel wrapped around his waist. He shook his head and glanced at the pool tables. Maybe he should just pick a fight—that would empty him of his frustrations and he probably wouldn't feel half as guilty.

He stood there trying to decide between the bimbo and the thieves when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye.

Hair, thick and smooth, stretched down her back like melted milk chocolate and pooled about her shoulders before continuing its slow pour to the floor. His hands jerked involuntarily and his fingers itched to run through the creamy red-brown dipping over her shoulder and tickling her jaw. Where the sleek lines of her hair ended, a new texture began gleaming black despite the dim overheads and electric neons of the bar. A swath of black lace swung low, skirting her tailbone, and swinging just below her trim waistline before pulling back up, a filigreed Cheshire smile, to cover her shoulders. Pale skin shone through the eyelets and netting of the shawl.

The shock of hair rudely molesting her jaw was pushed back—rejected—no longer allowed to perform its sweet nuzzling of her neck. He caught white satin fingertips through the creamy, chocolate strands and smiled. His eyes followed the swell of her hips and he leaned out, sidestepping through the crowd until he caught the shadow of long, lean legs that ended in stiletto heels. Forget the blonde. Forget the hustlers. He had always succumbed to his sweet tooth as a child and he sure didn't see any reason to start snacking differently now.

He sidled up behind her and leaned toward her ear until their bodies were a fraction of an inch apart. She stiffened at the closeness and he smiled, pleased that he had surprised her, but more so that she hadn't shrunk away. His breath licked at her ear. The heat from her body kicked into his chest and even though he couldn't see her face, he knew she was flushing. He wondered what she looked like; if the front were even half as nice as the back, he'd be happy. Her heat kicked up another notch; he wondered how she'd taste.

"Buy you a drink?"

Hot. Moist.

He blew a breath of cool air at the pulse in her neck. She shivered.

His cocky grin hitched on one side. She was as good as his.

"Remy?"

He turned, curious who would know him here. A man with long, silver hair waved at him.

"Remy?"

He turned again. This time his name belonged to the swirling depths of the Mississippi.

Her name died on his lips and he took her in—the white of her forelocks, the curve of her face, the shine of her earrings, the plunge of her neckline, the slope of her breasts, the cinch of her waist…

"I didn't know you were coming out tonight."

…The long silky lines of her legs…

"Remy?"

He inhaled, pushing his eyes toward the mosquito in his ear. "Pardon, Joe?"

Joseph huffed. "I said that I didn't know you were coming out tonight."

He ignored the other man, his gaze slipping away and melting into hers.

"You look—" he breathed, unsure of himself as he caught the sparkle in her green eyes, "_parfait_ (perfect)."

She exhaled, her lips parting into a wine-colored smile. "_Merci_ (Thank you)."

His mouth went dry.

X

Ororo huffed and knocked again impatiently. "C'mon, JP!" A muffled reply from some where within the depths of his room sounded but she ignored it. Twisting the knob, she let herself into her friend's bedroom and stared at the mess that lay before her.

Clothes were discarded about his room, resting in piles on the floor, on the bed, on the ceiling fan…She rolled her eyes and stalked into the closet to find her friend sitting inside a fort almost entirely made of denim. "I can't find a single thing to wear," he complained, pointing to his upturned room.

A frustrated sigh blew out from her lips and Ororo offered him her hand. "Did you try Remy's room?"

"No."

"Would you feel better if you tried Remy's room?" Remy's closet—from its Fiorvanti suits to its khaki slacks to its jeans with holes in the knee—was a testimony to the varying situations in which he could insinuate himself. Remy was just as at home amid aristocracy as he was in a dingy bar somewhere off the beaten path. And, Ororo knew, if JP couldn't find something acceptable in their friend's closet, there was no help for him.

JP agreed and grabbed her hand, leading her down the hall and into their friend's room. "It'll just take a second, 'Ro," he promised before tearing open the closet doors and flipping through the garment bags.

She sank into Remy's disheveled bed, eyeing the covers with frustration. When would he learn to be tidy? A glimmer of black peeked out from his sheet and she cocked her head in curiosity.

"Are we going to a nice restaurant or a hamburger joint?" JP called from the closet's depths.

"Where ever you decide," she answered leaning toward the little rectangle of silk. "What in the world?" She peeled away the sheet.

"How do I look?" He emerged from the closet, dressed smartly in a double-breasted suit of charcoal. Ororo was standing at the foot of the bed, her eyes narrowed into thin blue slits.

"Where was Remy last night?" Her voice was low and he shrank away from her.

"I don't know—"

"Where was he, JP?"

He swallowed. "Doin' something?"

She thrust the black silk bra into his face. "And exactly _who_ was he doing?"

X

"_Je vous en prie_ (You're welcome)." His voice sounded soft and he wasn't sure she had heard him until her delicious lips tugged up at the sides again. Before he could stop himself, he was smiling at her—not grinning, not smirking—smiling. And her smiled deepened, too.

"You have dimples." Her eyes widened and she slapped a hand over her mouth so forcefully that a lock of white loosened from behind her ear and slid in front of her eyes.

He winked and caught the hair between his fingers before carefully tucking it behind her ear. "Shh, can only bring 'em out on special 'ccasions, or de _femmes_ won' leave me alone." Beside him, someone was projecting rather hostile thoughts; he ignored them, his focus was on her.

"Well, Mr. Lebeau," Joseph had, apparently, had enough and shouldered past Remy to stand ever so close to Rogue. Her eyelids fluttered as she looked up at him and Remy felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach when she smiled at the other man. It all came back then. She had deserted him to go on a date with Joseph. She had broken their truce, destroyed their budding friendship, to date someone whose family had tried to hurt her. Because she would rather spend an evening with anyone other than him.

As Joe reached for her hand, Remy didn't see her hesitation. He missed the sad downturn of her lips as she said goodnight to him and let Joe lead her off. All he felt was the humiliation, the blow to his ego—the way he had felt that night at the hotel with Belle. And, before he could stop himself, self-preservation kicked in and he wanted to hurt her before she could delight in hurting him; in that instant, his wicked tongue got the better of him, "Yeah, you better hurry and get her home, mon ami, but don' try for no good-night kiss, 'less you wan' de life sucked outta you."

He felt the fist before Joe even knew he was going to hit him. He'd have punched himself if he could have. Because the look in her green eyes—the humiliation, the pain—hurt more than a pair of brass knuckles. It kicked the air right out of his lungs and made him sorry when he started breathing again.

X

JP yawned and rubbed his eyes. Dinner had been irrevocably put on hold and his stomach growled at the injustice of it all. He covered the sound with his hand and looked up to see Ororo stalk from one wall to the other. The bra had put her in such a tizzy that he now wished he had just kept his mouth shut and worn the chinos and button down shirt in his own closet. At least he'd have a nice, juicy hamburger happily digesting in his stomach if he had.

Xavier sat across from him, safely barricaded behind his desk from the ranting, chocolate-skinned beauty, and JP wished he could join him. As if reading his thoughts, Xavier offered the Canadian an out.

"JP, I'm famished; I did not get a chance to enjoy my dinner earlier. Would you be kind enough to go to the kitchen and get me some tea and a plate of cookies? Jubilee made lemon squares; they are usually pretty tasty…even when she makes them." And help yourself to a sandwich before you come back. I have a feeling it could be a long night. He added telepathically, sharing a guarded smile with the young man. JP nodded and skirted past Ororo.

Once he was gone, the African beauty plopped unceremoniously into his now unoccupied chair. "I will kill him."

Xavier smiled patiently. "I don't believe you for a second."

She dropped her head, banging her forehead against the lip of his desk. The wood felt cool and she tilted her head, leaning her blazing cheeks into the sleek pine. "I don't either," she admitted, her temper cooling considerably from when she had found the bra. "It's just that—" she sat up, sucking in her breath and dragging her hands down her face, "Remy's my responsibility. Don't laugh," she begged seeing the mirth in the old man's eyes. "He is. He's like my brother. My annoying, bragging, fragile little brother, and I know it sounds utterly ridiculous…even to me when I say it."

He chuckled, thinking about the three friends: Ororo, JeanPaul, and Remy. "You are a strange little family, aren't you?"

"I asked him to come here. I thought it might help him. He's been so hurt…ever since Belle…only he won't admit it." Her lips twisted into a sneer. "Instead he goes around—" she reddened.

"Fucking?" He offered.

"Fucking," she nodded, "everything in a skirt. Or I guess in this case, a thong leotard…" She narrowed her eyes. "I'm going to create a dress code for the uniforms. That is not only terribly uncomfortable, it's just plain impractical."

Xavier chuckled. "Despite your feelings of…responsibility…Remy is a grown man. He's been able to make his own choices now for quite some time. And usually—maybe not always—he does know what he is doing. I don't think you can be mad at him for being attracted to a member of the team. Look at Scott and Jean. Besides, I've met with Ms. Braddock; she's a very attractive woman. It's unfair to think that Remy wouldn't have noticed it." He laughed again, a twinkle in his eyes. "He's also the most libido-driven man, I've ever met."

She cracked a grin then. "Or so he likes us to believe." But she knew, as did the professor, that Remy's sexual prowess was remarkably legendary considering his young age of twenty-six. She was feeling better. The professor had that effect on her; he could relax her tension and make her look at things from a different perspective. It was one thing that she loved about the old man. "Here's the thing though, Professor, if they're in a romantic relationship, fine. I'm willing to be okay with that. Even though I think she's entirely wrong for him." Braddock reminded her of a British Belle and the feeling made her queasy. She would not let another femme fatale wound him; he was, in her eyes after all, her baby brother, and she'd be damned if another whore got her hooks into him. "But I don't think they should be sparring partners. The situation doesn't exactly lend itself to ideal training." Unless it's for the Karma Sutra, she added silently.

Xavier guffawed and cleared his throat with amusement. "No, I whole-heartedly agree." His countenance grew serious. "Especially after what happened with Jean. I don't believe that partnering them would be a wise decision. There are too many…chances for emotional destruction." He laced his fingers together. "We'll have to change a few people around. Do you have any suggestions?"

JP appeared in the doorway, balancing a pot of tea and a huge stack of lemon bars on a silver tray. He was scowling. "This place is turning into a _feuilleton mélo_ (soap opera)," he muttered. "Rogue and Joe just got back from their date and..." He looked up then, surprised to have an audience. "Oh, _désolé_ (sorry)."

Ororo looked alarmed. "Rogue and Joe went on a date? Aren't they sparring partners?" What had gotten into everybody? Could no one keep it in their pants? A thought occurred to her at that and a slow smile dragged across her pink lips. "Professor, I think I know the exact four people to change."

Xavier smiled. "Yes, Ororo, and I bet you've got an interesting twist in it for your little brother, don't you?"

She smiled. JP felt his skin crawl.

X

She was going to hate him and he didn't blame her for a second. In fact, he surmised, biting the inside of his cheek, she couldn't hate him anymore than he already hated himself. What he had said at the bar was underhanded and cruel and his stomach twisted as he imagined the pained look in her green eyes as his words whipped her. He wished he could say the red-purple bruise on his cheekbone hurt more than the sickening flutter of his insides, but he couldn't. He'd never felt as guilty as he did at that very moment. Not even with Genny in Paris. No. Not even then.

He made her cry. Even through the stinging of his own eyes, he had seen the drops cascading down her face. It was his words that had done that. She'd never forgive him. He'd never forgive himself. He shifted in his seat, and turned down the brick drive to the mansion's garage. The truce was completely null and void now; there was no hope for an extension. But, he reminded himself as he parked the Mustang in the disconnected garage, she had broken the truce first. She had not wanted it. He had merely saved himself the inevitable heartbreak of wanting something he could never have.

He entered on silent feet through the back door and made his way to the upstairs through the back stairwell. A fluttery voice caught his attention and he froze, scared to breathe. The back stairwell came out in the Ladies' Dormitory and he heard her voice, breathless, quiet.

"Thank you, Joe. It was a wonderful dinner."

"I'm sorry Lebeau showed up. I wish I'd hit him harder."

So do I, Remy thought miserably.

"What he said though…it is true. You'll never be able to kiss me without fe—"

Her voice was silenced. Remy ached to peer into the hallway, but dared not.

When she spoke again, she was even more breathless. "Thank you for that. Even though it could have hurt you."

"Left me woozy is all." He sounded like he was going to pass out. "I meant what I said. I've wanted to kiss you since I met you."

Remy's heart squeezed. A fire erupted in the pit of his stomach. If he'd had the stones to go into that hall, he'd have slugged that no good bastard for all he was worth. He needed to keep his dirty lips to himself. But instead, he sank into the shadows and waited for them to go to their rooms. Finally, he emerged into the hallway, angry with himself for the way he had treated her and angry with her for abandoning him.

He stalked down the hall, stopping in front of one large, oak door. Without blinking, he raised his chin and dragged his knuckles across the wood. A heartbeat later, the door opened. He slid the grin across his lips and leaned against the doorframe. "Bonsoir, cheré (Good evening, dear)."

"What happened to your face, luv?" Betsy's hand quivered at his cheek, her fingertips light against the bruised skin. "What does the other guy look like?" she teased.

He pretended to consider her question. "Like an ogre." And she laughed. It was beautiful and tinkling and her lips were like strawberries. Without thinking, he crushed his mouth into hers and pushed her into the room. Her lips opened and he slipped his tongue into the warm, moist environment. She moaned, pulling him toward her bed and she fell back, taking his weight with her. Her tongue was now twisting with his and he broke the connection for a second, pulling his t-shirt over his head, while she disposed of her own. He stared down at her, admiring the curves of her body. And she smiled. Perfect strawberries parted. He swallowed and hoped they could quench his thirst for wine.

X

The sun dappled light across his face and he groaned, hooking his arm across his eyes and pointedly turning away. Light, feminine laughter tinkled above him and he dropped his elbow so that one bleary red eye peered out. Betsy was standing beside him. She was smartly dressed in a black skirt suit. A silver ruffle flipped out at the base of her jacket's collar and matched the large silver hoops dangling from her ears. Her purple hair was pulled back in a French twist though a few whispery tendrils curled in front of her earlobes. Her lips were stained mauve and were still swollen from the night before. She ran a finger down his jaw and smiled at the feel of his stubble against her fingertip. "Mornin', luv," her voice was low and husky. "Your cheek looks much better."

He breathed in, a smile settling across his features. "_Merci, chére_," he purred, pulling himself to his elbows. "What time's it?"

She perched on the bed next to him. "Six. I just received a message from Xavier. I have to meet with him directly after school. I needed to get an early start on my day." She pouted. "Unless of course, you're up for another round? Or maybe just some snogging?" Her eyebrows waggled suggestively.

He licked his lips. So it was morning? That meant that he had to spend all day with Rogue, an event to which he was definitely not looking forward. Why had he said that awful thing last night? Sure, he'd wanted to get back at her for going off and leaving him with the babysitting duties, but he'd been thinking more along the lines of a couple of well-thought-out pranks, not humiliating her—not hurting her. Not like that. He was vaguely aware that he had acted out of jealousy. Twice. And he was staring up at one of those acts now.

"Betts, as much as I would like to, 'm gon' have to take a rain check." Her lip plumped out even further and he swallowed, his restraint weakening as he thought about suckling that pretty pink curve. "Gotta get de lessons set up m'self." He offered a wink and a smile and she took them.

He pushed away the covers, well aware of the pair of violet eyes staring fixedly on his goodies. He grabbed his discarded clothes from the floor and quickly pulled on his boxers and t-shirt. He'd just carry his jeans. "See ya, Betts." He pushed through her door.

The hallway was deserted, but as he turned the corner, he froze.

Two green eyes widened against two red ones. _Merde_! And he slipped his sunglasses across his face in an instant. It was as if they'd never left his face and he watched as she blinked. Rogue looked from his state of dress—or lack thereof—to the empty hall behind him. Then she looked at him and he saw the pain and anger intertwine right before his eyes as she reeled on her heel and stalked away from him.

He grabbed her, his hand clamping down hard on her elbow and shook her to face him. "Don't." It was deep, but just a whisper.

Her eyes flashed. "Let go o' me." He could see the tears in her eyes. His hand felt that strange tingle but he did not let go.

Instead he pleaded, "Lis'en. I'm sorry. Dat was terrible to say an' I wish I could take it back." He insisted at her snarl, "I really do. I was mad 'cause you di'n't come to de course…" an' 'cause you were wit' Joseph, he added silently, an' 'cause you looked beautiful… If he were going to be honest with himself, he might as well be perfectly honest, he decided.

"That was the most hateful thing anyone's ever said to me!" And he believed her. "Forget your apologies. Ah'm talking to Scott. You can co-teach with Sabretooth for all Ah care, but you're not gonna stay wit' me! Ah hate you, Remy Lebeau."

She should have just hit him; it would have hurt less. He thought about telling her so, but changed his mind. Instead, he released her, a humorless chuckle tumbled from his lips and he watched as she shrank away from him, her eyes wide. But she didn't run and he let a whisper of his empathy reach toward her. He felt an odd mixture from someone who stated so adamantly that they hated him. He felt hurt, sadness, anger, and…something else…

"Ah shouldn't have said that…" A tear from each eye rolled down her cheeks. "Ah didn't mean that…"

One side of his mouth hitched up. "Sure y' did. Don' blame ya none. 'm not to fond of m'self t'day." He swept into a low bow and, straightening, moved to pass her, making sure that there was a nice distance between them as he did so. "I'm sorry for last night, Ms. Rogue. It was ter'bly rude of me to say such t'ings an' I hope dat you'll be able to forgive me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get ready for class. Perhaps, we can try to remain civil for de remaining hours of de day since until ot'erwise known, I'm your co-teacher?" She nodded, but her anger was starting to return with his nonchalance. "_Bon_." And he left her in the hallway.

She stared after him. She'd never been more hurt than last night. He's words had cut her so deeply she was sure there had been blood. But, now, as she watched him leave, as she listened to his flat tone, she wasn't sure if perhaps, this hurt more after all. And she felt guilty. She didn't hate him; even though she knew she should. In fact, it was far from hate…but she'd never let him know. Besides, she had Joseph. She needed to think about Joseph. Joseph would never hurt her the way that Remy did. He couldn't, she decided, no one could.

The day continued in much the same tone. Remy was polite but never said more than was necessary and by the end of the school day Rogue was desperately beginning to miss the sarcastic slide of his mouth when he smirked. In fact, she was even beginning to favor his smart-assed comments over the barely audible "Yes, ma'am"s and "Ms. Rogue"s that he favored her with during class. His attitude became little more than indifferent and it only served to piss her off even more. The students had picked up on the odd tension and Rogue questioned the effectiveness of their learning environment. They'd been in the class three days and had seen almost the entire gamut of emotions their teachers could humanly possess. That sort of instability had to have a negative consequence on their education, but damned if she cared. She only wanted Remy Lebeau out of her classroom. If he was going to be such a shit, then he could do it somewhere else. She was through with him.

It was the end of the day and they skirted around each other as they gathered their things to leave. Remy's mouth was set in a curiously thin line and his brow seemed to be permanently knitted together. She was thankful, at least, that the impossible tension had bothered him as well. She stuffed her binder in her bag and slid the strap on her shoulder. A hand on her arm, and she halted.

He was looking at her. And as she stared back into his handsome face, she noticed the line of his jaw tense next to the purple shadow on his cheek. She wished she could see his eyes. She'd caught a quick glimpse of them that morning and the experience had only left her wondering. They'd looked dark, red and dark and she wondered if that was the case. Maybe he wore the sunglasses out of embarrassment? Her fingers itched to tip them away from his eyes, but she stared at him, her face hardening as she thought about the way he had treated her. "What?" she finally snapped.

"I am sorry." It was soft; she barely heard. And in the instant that she understood what he said, the light pressure of his fingertips had already disappeared and she was alone.

X

Professor Charles Xavier was a well-educated man. He'd been bestowed with a doctorate in sociology, for goodness' sake. He was the strongest telepath on the face of the earth. He'd helped the X-Men face megalomaniacal villains hell bent on taking over the world and punishing every non-mutant on the face of the planet. He created a school for mutants to receive an education as well as moral leadership so that they would know how to use their powers for the benefit of the world. He'd had many students, fought many fights, but as he stared at the two young teachers he'd called into his office, he had one overwhelming thought: _What have I gotten myself into?_

Rogue was staring fixedly at a point on the wall behind him. Her white bangs started at the crown of her head and ran long and sleek down to her jaw. Behind them, auburn hair had been pulled back into a ponytail. She had been resting when he summoned her and had come in her t-shirt, sweats, and flip-flops. Her arms were crossed over her chest and the fingers of her right hand were impatiently tapping her left arm. Her normally vibrant green eyes were shining with agitation and Xavier felt himself swallow nervously. Pink lips were twisted into a sneer as she threw shaded glances at the person occupying the seat next to her.

That being said, it was extremely humorous to see that the handsome young man flopped out in the chair beside her seemed completely ignorant to her open animosity. At first glance, Remy was nonchalant, content to shuffle his cards, and casually comment on the priceless antiques lining Xavier's bookshelves. But the professor was well aware of Remy's more inconspicuous powers, and every once in a while, he noticed the gentle fall of the young man's smile and caught the quick flicker of red that accompanied the use of his empathic abilities. His ability to hide—whether it was physically or emotionally—was one of the things that made Remy true to his alter ego, Gambit. Despite the devil-may-care attitude and seemingly suave innuendos that he hid behind as the master-thief, Gambit, Xavier had a strong inkling that Remy was more sensitive to others than even his former teacher knew. Remy complimented his pen and pencil set for the second time; he made a mental note to inventory his possessions.

An exasperated groan rolled from the seat beside the reformed thief as Rogue pretended to pull out her hair. "Professor, Ah gave it a good try, but Ah cannot continue to work with him. He's infuriating! He's rude and condescending and…and…and he's supposed to be _helping_ me? Ah've never had so much work to do in my life! Not to mention the fact that he hacked into the computer system and read confidential files!" She dropped her head into her hands and shuddered.

Remy's lips tugged ever so slightly upward and he rubbed the stubble on his jaw, his fingers skirting the shadow of a bruise. If Xavier hadn't known Remy, he'd have asked what happened.

Xavier watched wordlessly before clearing his throat. "I am aware of his transgressions, but, Rogue, there are several reasons why I have partnered you with Remy." He held up his hand as she started to protest. "One reason is because you are an excellent teacher and Remy has never taught according to state benchmarks before."

"Then why not stick him with 'Ro or JP? They're wonderful teachers and _they_ like him!"

"You sayin' you don' like me?" One side of his mouth twitched into a lopsided grin, but Xavier saw the slow burn behind the sunglasses.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Ah don't know how to make it any clearer."

An eyebrow peeked out over the top of his shades but for once, the Cajun didn't appear to have anything to say. The silence was unnerving.

"Another reason why I partnered you together is that, despite appearances, I truly believe you can learn something from one another," a secretive smile appeared on Xavier's lips. "Call it…intuition." He busied himself with straightening a stack of papers before looking up at them again. "Due to certain…circumstances…I was planning to change your sparring partners around anyway, and now I am even more sure of my plans. It is essential to the team that you two learn how to work together."

Rogue looked incredulously at him. "Are you on drugs?" She flipped in her chair and demanded, "What? Are you controlling his mind or somethin'?" Back to the professor, "How can you possibly think that's a good idea?"

He continued, not missing a beat. "I have already informed Scott of the change. I was able to speak with Joseph and Betsy this morning. They will begin their training tonight."

"What!" A horrified look came over her features.

Xavier felt a pang of guilt as her emotions barreled toward him through his mental shields. Had he not been looking up at the time, he noted, he would have missed Remy's painful wince. "I'm sorry, Rogue, but I believe you two will benefit greatly by field training together."

She shook her head as tears began to well up in her eyes. "Fine." Storming out of the room, she slammed the door shut.

Turning to Remy, he exhaled loudly. "Today's session will be your last with our new English teacher, Remy."

He smiled sadly. "If'n you'd seen de way she moves, Prof., you wouldn't be doin' dis to me."

"Scott said that she, quote—beat the shit out of you every time—unquote, when you sparred. I would think you'd be glad to spare yourself the bruises."

Remy pulled his glasses down low on his nose; his eyes glowed like fire and a slow smile spread across his face. "Dat a fact? Well, at least de _femme_'s got a sense of honor. Leans over an' helps me up ev'ry time she knocks me down." He winked, "See ya."

Xavier shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose again. "Oh? Remy?"

"_Ouí?_" He stopped in the doorway.

"You don't have to wear those anymore." He nodded at the sunglasses now firmly back on the young man's face. "No one will say anything."

He let out a strangled laugh. "Dey'd be t'inkin' it though, won' dey?"

Xavier questioned him. "Don't you take them off when you spar with Ms. Braddock?"

"De _femme_'s got purple hair." He looked at the bald man as if it was the most obvious answer in the history of the world.

"Okay…?"

"She's not gon' get freaked out as much as say…a certain li'l green-eyed _fille_. So, yeah, I take 'em off when I'm wit' her."

"I see. I think I should tell you that you are underestimating Rogue."

"Really? D'you feel dat? When you told her dat she was going to have to be my sparring partner and Joseph was gonna be wit' Betts, d'you feel dat?"

"Maybe."

"Like hell 'maybe'." He moved back into the room and laid his palms on Xavier's desk, staring down at him. "She don' wan' me here. An' she wants to be stuck wit' me even less. Why not jus' give in? Let her be wit' dat Joseph guy she's always goin' on 'bout. Stick me wit' Betts," he let out a humorless laugh, "she's more my speed anyway."

Xavier set his jaw. "You will start meeting with your new sparring partner tomorrow morning at six. Be on time, Storm will be monitoring your sequence."

X

He found her several hours later crying on the rooftop. Her body wracked with sobs, her arms circled protectively around her chest. He felt a tug on his heart; the feeling felt almost foreign; he had thought it was dead. He watched her quietly, not wanting to intrude upon her anymore. The reality that he was yet again the reason for her tears did not go unnoticed and he hated himself for continuing to cause her pain. He was nothing but a thorn in her side, he realized, and it hurt him. And despite the fact that he knew he should leave, pack up his bags and walk out of the mansion, he couldn't do it. Even if it meant seeing her cry again and again because of him, even if every tear killed him all over again, he wanted to be near her. He was a selfish bastard.

He sighed and moved forward, his footsteps falling silently on the shingles. When he was about three feet behind her, he sat down and pulled a cigarette out of one of his coat's many pockets and told her again, "I'm sorry."

She didn't turn to look at him but he saw the bob of her head acknowledge his words. She kept her face down letting the breeze kiss her tears away.

The silence was unsettling. He exhaled and watched the gray swirls curl from his mouth before lifting into the darkening night sky. He could see her breath rise above her like smoke signals; it was the only sign of life from her direction. She sat like a stone sentinel, her feet dangling off the roof's summit.

"Ya can leave now, you know? You've done your chivalrous duty fer the night." She spoke, her back still turned towards him.

He stubbed his cigarette out and found himself nodding. "True."

Silence.

"Ah don't hear ya leavin'."

Again a nod. "Also true."

She turned around then and he saw a flash of angry green. "Good-bye."

Feigned innocence. "Where ya goin'?"

"Look," she growled, "Ah was here first, an' Ah'm not done. So, if you can just scoot into whatever hole you came out of, Ah'll finish up here. Understand?" She turned violently around and shrieked when she realized she'd been thrown off balance.

Two strong arms went around her instantly, steadying her. When she turned back around, he was a good distance from her, lighting a cigarette. "How'd you do that?" It was a whisper.

His brow furrowed as he leaned toward her direction. "Pardon?"

"How did you get back there that fast?"

He shrugged. "Jus' came out t' tell you dat we got trainin' at six in de mornin'." He took a long drag before standing up and moving noiselessly toward an open window. "Oh, an' I don' go by Remy when I'm trainin', _p'tite_. You gon' have t' call me Gambit like ev'ryone else." He leapt through the window and somersaulted to his feet. "_Bonne nuit. Dormir tendu. Ne pas laisser les insectes de lit mordent._ (Good night. Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs bite.)"

X

She hated him. He did nothing but ruin things for her, she decided. He was ruining her chances to get to know Joseph. The man was wonderful to her. He had surprised her with lunch and they had sat and talked until it was time to go back to work. He was kind and gentle and he liked her. And it didn't matter that she couldn't touch. He had kissed her, damn it! Despite the fact that she could have unearthed memories of his estranged father, he had kissed her. He was handsome, strong. He loved being a teacher, loved making a difference. He wanted to be her boyfriend. And she was going to lose him. And it was all Remy's fault. Because she had to be stuck sparring with him. Because he had somehow brainwashed the X-Men. Because he was an idiot. Because he said she was pretty…because she believed him…

Returning from the kitchen with a pint of ice cream and two spoons, she was deep in thought as she walked down the hallway to her bedroom. Not paying any attention to where she was going, she was suddenly jerked back to consciousness:

She bumped her head on something purple.

"Bloody hell!" The purple thing seemed as irritated as she was.

Shaking her head to clear the numbness, she found herself staring into two narrowed violet eyes. "Ms. Braddock?"

Ms. Braddock had an exotic look to her. Rogue's stomach twisted in agony; even without any distractions, she was certain she'd lose Joseph to the woman standing before her. Braddock was tall with a slender build accentuated by a long black dress with a slit that seemed to go up to her waist. Spaghetti straps wove in and out in a three fingered 'X' across her back; they were attached with tiny silver buckles in the front. The bodice plunged liberally, showing off her womanly assets. A silver chain seemed to disappear into her cleavage. Purple hair was swept up in a loose French twist with tendrils curling down and spilling across her cheeks and forehead. "Sorry?"

Rogue shook her head and smiled. "Ah'm sorry. Ah didn't mean t' bump into ya. Ah wasn't really payin' any attention." She held out her hand. "Ah'm Rogue. Ah met ya at the faculty party a couple weeks ago."

"Rogue." Her name sounded like poison even to her own ears. "Your Rem's co-teacher." She crossed her arms over her chest and stared down her nose. "Well, if you think this little ploy of yours is going to work, you've got another think coming!"

She shook her head. Clearly, she had lost her sense of hearing. "What!"

"Don't think I'm not on to you and your little scam." The Asian woman's voice had dropped to a deadly whisper. "You keep your hands off him. I saw him first."

"Who?" Clearly, Braddock's sanity had disappeared as well. She couldn't possibly mean Gambit. A new sickness formed in her stomach. Perhaps she didn't need to worry about Joseph; perhaps the Brit had her sights set on someone else. And, strangely enough, that knowledge only made her feel worse.

"Remy." The purple thing huffed and pushed past Rogue to move down the hallway. "We are going out tonight—Remy and me. Now, if you'll excuse me." She swept through the corridor, her hips swaying sexily from side to side as she made her way to the men's wing.

"Huh?"

X

"Well, yeah. They've been sorta seein' each other since they arrived at the Institute." Kitty was staring at her as if she'd just grown a second head. "Where have you been?"

Rogue sat cross-legged on her bed across from her best friend. "Working. Which is what lover boy was supposed to be doing as well, and now Ah find that this entire time he's been chasin' some skirt…who, by the way, is a bit of a bitch."

Kitty giggled. "Well, she thinks you're after her man. You're not are you?"

"No."

"Oh." The bubbly brunette sat back on her feet and cracked her gum. "No one could blame you if you are."

"If Ah'm what?" Gawd, was she that transparent?

"After Remy."

Rogue sucked in a breath. When she'd gotten home the evening before, Kitty had already been asleep. Because of this, Rogue had neglected to tell her about the Cajun's behavior at the restaurant. And, for some unknown reason, she didn't want to. She liked that Kitty liked Remy. She liked that Kitty had totally implausible ideas of love and desire and need when it came to her. Kitty believed that love could conquer all—even a mutant skin condition, and Rogue didn't want to be the one to burst her bubble. Not yet, anyway.

"What is up with everyone stickin' me with Lebeau? Ah don't like him." She sighed, hugging her pillow. _And he doesn't like me_, she reminded herself silently. "Seriously? Why does everyone keep putting me with him?"

"I don't know. You just seem to fit with each other. I mean, you're both from the South—"

"Lots of people are from the South. That doesn't mean that they're all hopping into each other's beds."

"So you've thought about hopping into his bed?"

"Ah'm gonna hit you." Damn it, she _was_ transparent!

Kitty held her palms up. "Just kidding. There're lots of things. You just seem to fit, but he seems to really like Ms. Braddock. He calls her 'Betts.'"

"Why?"

"Her name's Betsy. I think it's kind of cute. He gives everyone nicknames. Like Jubilee is Jubes. Ororo is Stormy—which she tells everyone she hates, but you can tell she doesn't mind when it comes from him. And he calls Jean Paul JP."

"_Everyone_ calls Jean Paul JP."

"Right, but guess who coined it?"

"What are you? The Lebeau fan club president?"

"Don't be silly." She dismissed the comment with a wave of her hand. "I'm the secretary/treasurer. Jubes is the president." The disgusted look on her friend's face sent her into a fit of giggles. "Just kiddin', '_chére'_, just kiddin'."

* * *

Okay... First things first. Thanks for all of the reviews: Lucia de' Medici, musagirl15, theblondeone07, Leash, willa.j, Rogue87, toomakeyoulaugh, RayneXX, ishandahalf, Jedi Ditz, mela, vinh, xXPoisonXx, Spicy Sweet, PsYcHoThErApY17, tanza. I really appreciate all of your kind words. Thanks to those who added Broken Road as a favorite!

I told Lucia that she'd want to kick Remy...what do the rest of you think? He was an ass, wasn't he?

He didn't get to perform the one-upping he'd intentioned but that doesn't mean it won't happen in the future...he's nothing if not devious. Joe seems to really like Rogue, but will she be able to maintain her interest when she's already admitted to herself that she's way more attracted to Remy? What will Betsy do if Remy's affections start to pull away from her? Will JP ever get to go out to eat? What sort of session does Stormy have in mind for her friends? Is Remy really sorry for what he said to Rogue? Will Rogue be able to forgive him?

In other news, I'm having a baby. So, right now, my attention is split between well...puking and not puking. So, I've kinda slacked on the writing until my 24-hour morning sickness lets up. I apologize for that, because the last thing I want to do is leave you all hanging. Here's hoping it ends before school starts back up...


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

**_I'm bare-boned and crazy for you_**

**Dave Matthews Band, Crash into me**

"How was your date,_ mon ami?"_

Remy sighed and slid into the vacant seat across the table from JP. The grandfather clock in the hallway moaned the early hour. "Fuckin-tastic."

The Canadian shook his head disappointedly. "You know, you're in this mess for that exact reason."

"Figured dat out, t'anks very much. An' I expect my suit back—cleaned." He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a tired sigh. "I swear, JP, you're worse dan a _petite soeur_ (little sister)."

His friend chuckled. "Not my fault you can't clean up after yourself. I would have thought that after I found the bra you would have had the good sense to return it to its owner." He scooted down into his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "So."

Remy stifled a yawn. "So?"

"At the risk of sounding more like a little sister, do you like her?"

"Who?"

A pause. "Betsy."

He seemed to think about it for a moment, his teeth absently chewing at his bottom lip, and he pressed his palms into the coffee-colored wood of the kitchen table. "Yeah, she fun." He pulled his hands back; dewy silhouettes stared back at him. "Not sayin' I wan' marry her, but, _oui_, I have a good time wit' her." He kept his eyes on the wood; the moist outlines of his hands evaporated slowly until it was as though his touch had never occurred. He wished words could lift that easily.

His date with Betsy had been fine. When she had come to him, strawberry lips plumped out in a perfect pout, and asked if they could have dinner, he had been aching for contact. It was a terrible thing, he realized, the need for touch. And she had such a wonderful mouth. And he had needed to occupy his with something other than bitter apologies.

When she came to his room, dressed in a lovely black gown with slits clean up to her waist, he had been very glad that he had agreed to the date. Seemed strange, he admitted to himself, to go out with a casual fling, but what the hell, after all. Besides, what else was he to do? Sit around and think about Rogue? Think about the shitty things he had said to her and the shitty things she said back? Why? To what purpose? So, he'd grabbed his sports jacket, opting to leave his trench coat slung over the back of a chair, pressed a feather light hand into the small of Betsy's back and took her to the city.

They'd gone to a wonderful little French restaurant. She'd had a deep red wine that stained her lips when she sipped it. Lips, the color of wine, and he wanted nothing more than to taste them. He ordered a bottle to go and they skipped dessert, hurrying home to her bedroom. He made her drink another glass, watched as her berry lips stained a passionate purple-pink, and set his insatiable thirst against her perfect mouth. His tongue had a mind of its own, flickering across her lips, drinking them, tasting them, memorizing the plumpness of their curves before plunging past a moist moan and searching for its dance partner.

He'd pushed her back against the bed, his fingertips swirled whirlpools up her thigh while the other hand moved down her neck. Her legs parted and he settled in between them, the heat of his body hot against her chest. She reached up, freed his button-down shirt from the top of his trousers and ran her hands underneath. His stomach muscles clenched. She sighed, her fingers lazily outlining each of his abdominal muscles with the accuracy of a practiced artist.

He watched her lips. Those beautiful, wine-colored lips.

When she whispered his name, he flinched, confused by the heavy British accent. He searched her eyes. Half-closed violet slits, heavy-lidded with lust, shown back at him.

It didn't matter that he had gone out; he was still thinking about Rogue.

"Remy…" she purred again.

And he closed his eyes…

He raised them now, red fire against a black night, and set them in a hard look. JP was watching him, scrutinizing him, weighing his silence, his half-truths, sorting through the inconsistencies of his character. That was the problem with having friends from childhood, they knew too much. He heaved a sigh, pushed away from the table, stretched.

"Gotta go, _mon ami_. Got an early mornin'."

JP nodded, the mind behind his blue eyes still sifting, focusing, understanding… "Bonne nuit, mon ami. Tout est plus clair le matin. (Good night, my friend. Everything is clearer in the morning.)"

And Remy wondered how he knew so much…or if it was just a façade…like the one in which he had just participated.

X

She was lying in bed, staring at the clock's digital display. It wouldn't sound for another ten minutes but she couldn't bring herself to get up before it did. She needed this time to prepare herself—psyche herself up to face him—convince herself to not be lost in the dichotomy that was Remy Lebeau. She had to pick one way to see him, because one was easier—one could make sense. But the conflicted facets of his personality confused her, left her unsure of which Remy was real and which was undeniably a lie.

It was her first instinct to assume that the nice, friendly Remy—the one with whom she had shared cookies and soda—was a fake, an attempt to butter her up, to worm his way in to hurt her again and again. And yet—he'd been so real, so…genuine…when they'd shared the kitchen in the early morning hours that she could all but convince herself that he had been acting.

She rolled away from the clock and faced the cream colored walls of her bedroom. That night had made her trust him—or, worse yet, it made her want to trust him…to like him… She squeezed her eyes tight but a tiny tear managed to eek its way out. Let it go, Rogue, she breathed, it was all a lie. A giant, calculated lie. It would be so much easier if it were all a lie.

Behind her, the alarm sounded. Turning around, she pressed the snooze button. She just needed a few more minutes…

X

The sparring session was to take place in the Danger Room. Rogue shifted on uneasy feet before pushing through the metal doors that led to the large room. She had mentally prepared herself for all kinds of scenarios: an urban neighborhood, a dilapidated building, a wheat field, even the moon, but what she saw before her now, caused a tightening in her neck and set her teeth on edge. This, she thought swallowing, this, she had not expected.

One wall of the vanilla-colored room consisted of mahogany-framed windows that ran from ceiling to floor. Wooden blinds, so thin she was certain they were paper, covered the glass. The artificial sunshine pouring through them made them almost opalescent. The room was a rectangle, with the windowed wall and its opposite twice as long as the ends. The remaining three walls were home to various artwork skillfully framed and smartly identified by a small plaque beneath each work. Spread out in the middle of the floor was a large mat that reminded Rogue of weeds she'd seen growing along the Mississippi River. Curiously, she dropped to a squat, peeled away a glove, and ran her hand against the coarse material. Sort of felt like the weeds, too, she decided, before stuffing her hand back into its force field.

"Good morning, Rogue," Ororo's bright voice came from behind her and she turned just in time to see the weather goddess bound through a pair of dark wooded doors.

"This is some holograph," she whistled, waving her hands about the room. "Ah even had to feel the mat," she added, almost apologetically.

Ororo nodded. "I did, too," she whispered, stopping to squeeze Rogue's shoulder. "Even feels real." She swung her head down, gathering her silver locks into a single ponytail at the top of her head. As she weaved in the hair-tie, she set her blue eyes on her young friend. "You might as well sit down, Rogue," she started, taking a seat on the weedy mat, "I expect Remy to be late." Her eyes sparkled with amusement at the admission.

"Isn't it supposed to start at six?" Maybe she'd misunderstood the Cajun? There was no way Ororo was okay with a session's tardiness. Again Rogue wondered how one man could have bewitched the whole of the X-Men.

"No, it's starts at six." Ororo smiled, crossing her legs and rolling back her shoulders. "I just know Remy."

"Oh, you do, do you, Stormy?" His deep chuckle came at Rogue from all directions and she jerked her head up to see him lazily leaning against one of the wooded doorframes. A bandana was tied around his head, successfully lifting his bangs off his forehead but sending them sticking out in every which way. He wore a gray LSU t-shirt that had seen better days and had mercilessly had its sleeves removed. A pair of black basketball shorts covered his legs down to his knee but his calves were bare. So were his feet, Rogue noted, when a smirk told her she had been staring for too long.

"Remy," Ororo snapped, "what are you wearing? This is a training session. You look like you just rolled out of bed."

If her irritation bothered him, he didn't let on. Instead, he grinned, oozed up next to her, and pecked her on the cheek. "Did just roll outta bed. Long night," he added, smiling as she rolled her eyes. "Decided I could either be on time or be dressed in my uniform. T'ought you'd appreciate de former." He glanced in Rogue's direction. She dropped her eyes once more.

The corners of his mouth twitched downward but were corrected almost immediately and set in a lazy grin. "So, Stormy," he began, glancing around the room, "gotta say, 'm impressed. T'ought I'd be runnin' some fool mission on Mars."

Despite herself, Rogue smiled.

Ororo, too, smiled. "Let's just say that I enjoy keeping things as realistic as possible. Besides, I'm willing to bet that sparring in a non-stressful environment unnerves both of you much more than any battlefield ever could."

Remy's mouth twisted into a protest. "You naughty li'l _fille_. You're enjoying dis."

"If Rogue knocks you out, I'll enjoy it even more." She turned and headed to the stairwell. "I'll explain your objective from the booth. Take opposing positions on the mat."

Remy watched Ororo disappear in the doorway before moving to the mat. The reeds scratched at the bottoms of his feet. He enjoyed the roughness and dug his heels against the material. Rogue approached him cautiously, her green eyes flickering to his bare arms, legs, and feet. He felt a sinking in his stomach and wished he had worn his uniform; though, with the tight black bodysuit she was wearing how she could be worried about skin-to-skin contact was beyond him. Not that he was complaining. He liked what she was wearing very much. It left little to his imagination, but, hell, she could have worn a burlap sack and his imagination would have run with it.

Her auburn hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, while the white bangs hung freely on either side of her face. Instead of the sleek, straight lines from the previous day, curls, wild and untamed, twisted and twirled from the hair-tie's hold. They suited her, he decided, the tumultuous tresses that kicked every which way. The flattened locks were nice, but they didn't even begin to capture her personality. No, they were a pretense, a mask to smother the fire that he was sure burned inside of her.

"Like I said b'fore, you ain' gon' hurt me none, Rogue," he declared, gripping her by the arm and pulling her toward him.

She struggled against his hold, gloved fingers prying his from her forearm. "Leggo!" She hissed, her eyes flashing. He removed his hand, holding it up in defeat. "Ah'm gonna lay you flat, Swamprat!" she swore.

He was beside her before she could register his movement; his breath tickled her ear and the warmth of his closeness set goosebumps across her skin. "You can lay me anytime you wan', _chére_. But, we gon' havta wait 'till Stormy's gone. Wouldn't wan' her t' get upset wit' me." He danced away as she swung a drowsy fist in his direction.

"Positions!" Ororo's voice sounded across the loudspeakers. "This is going to be purely hand-to-hand. No powers or weapons are allowed. That means all powers." Remy had a sinking suspicion she was looking right at him. "All you have to do is hold your opponent to the mat; their shoulders must be down for a count of four. This session will last one hour. There will be no debriefing or going over your technique at this time; I'm just trying to see where your skills stand right now. Sort of a basal for your improvement. Begin."

She launched at him; he sidestepped and easily hooked an arm around her waist. A quick kick to her feet and a second later, she was on her back. She saw red.

"Let me up!"

"Well, now, I reckon I could do dat," she rolled her eyes at the smirk in his voice, "but…I'm afraid dat it won' make no diff'rence."

"Why do ya think that?" She gritted her teeth.

"'Cause 'lessen you calm down a bit an' t'ink 'bout what ya're doin', ya're gon' end up dere 'gain." His voice dropped away and he clicked his tongue at her. "Got an awful lot of anger, but no focus."

"Oh no, Ah've got a focus all right." She narrowed her eyes.

"Mebbe ya got de wrong one den, huh?" He pulled her to her feet and she swung at him again.

She twisted with the force of her swing. He grabbed her, pinning her arms down to her sides. "Listen, Missi'ppi, a man can only 'pologize so many times 'fore he starts t'inkin' badly of himself. So listen good! I wish I'd never said dat! You looked _tres belle_ dat night." She kicked at his shins and he grunted in pain. "_Merde_!" And he let go, pushing her forward with such force that she fell to her hands and knees on the mat.

"You think Ah don't get your little game?" She spat, twisting on the mat and sweeping her legs toward his. He merely raised an eyebrow, his legs out of reach. "You're just trying to hurt me."

"Yeah, dat's it; you got me." His voice dripped sarcasm. "What de hell is wrong wit' you, woman? You t'ink I sit around all day t'inkin' of t'ings to do to you?" He winced, aware of the irony of his words. "I jus' wan' be your friend, Rogue." His eyes flashed behind his shades.

"Ah'll just bet," and she lunged for him; he moved away. The pattern continued for several seconds. She'd attack; he'd retreat. Attack, retreat. Attack. Retreat. Until finally, Remy had enough. She sprung at him and this time he grabbed her by the forearms and tucked into a backwards roll. His feet were flush against her stomach, and on the backwards swing, he pushed her away, successfully catapulting her to the other end of the mat where she landed in an unladylike heap.

The return swing brought him to a squat and he rested his elbows on his knees. "Why don' you jus' try an' listen for a change, hein? I know it gon' be hard, but give it a go. I am sorry, Rogue. I'd take back de words if I could. But I cain't. An' I do wanna be friends wit' you. Like we was in de kitchen. An' you had de crumbs all over your face…"

"Ah don't believe you." It was almost a whimper…almost.

He crossed his heart. "I swear it."

"But you're a liar."

"Now when did you go an' figure dat?"

"You lied to me."

"When?"

"On the roof. When you said that you knew 'bout my powers."

He raised an eyebrow as she adjusted her position on the mat. Her eyes were moist. He swallowed and tapped his chin. "Seems I recall tellin' you dat I hacked de computer."

"Yeah. But you made it sound like you was jokin'."

"Now see, dat's where it becomes a matter of view. I didn't lie; you just didn't believe me." He crossed his arms over his chest, a smug little smile pulled on his lips. "Ain't my fault you wan' see de good in people."

"Ya wear those damn sunglasses everywhere ya go. Hiding from yourself…that's sort of a lie, wouldn't ya say?" She was on her knees now, a gloved palm resting on a cocked hip, her green eyes narrowing.

"I ain't hidin' from nobody." That same strange flash of red glowed behind his shades.

"What's the matter, _Gambit_? Afraid everyone will see just what kind of a freak you really are?" She was goading him, daring him to react, as she slowly stood and moved toward him.

A smile, then, "Eat shit, skunk-head."

An equally tight smile and a slow step forward. "Fuck off, swamp rat."

A sneer. "You wish."

"Like you'd even know where to stick it." Another step. Target within reaching distance.

Gambit chuckled; it was low, guttural, undeniably male, and it made her insides gel. "If it was just about sticking it somewhere, wouldn't be no fun." Taking a step forward, until they were nearly touching, he dipped his head. "Go 'head, Miss'ippi. You t'ink you can handle it. Take 'em."

She stiffened. He had been acutely aware of her movement…and her plan. It unnerved her; how could he possibly know? _He wasn't a telepath, right_? Unless that had been a lie, too.

Without responding, she shot her hand forward, and tugged the shades away from his face. He blinked rapidly in the bright light, wincing slightly, until finally, he seemed to grow accustomed to the wattage. Then, he turned his eyes to her, and she gasped.

They were bloody and dark looking. Red pupils crackled with strange electricity that made them glow, made them almost hypnotizing to watch. They were set against a sclera the color of the sky on a starless night. She felt her lip tremble, felt the warm sensation moving from her chest to her core at the intensity in his gaze. She swallowed; she was unable to speak, unable to move, pinned to the mat by his eyes. A slow, sad smile stretched across his face and she felt the tears in her throat. "Ain't all dat easy to handle, is it, Miss'ippi?" He reached for the sunglasses tight in her hand. "You can scream. Won't t'ink nothin' less of ya."

She clenched her fist around the glasses, refusing to let him free them from her grasp. Her breathing was shallow. The pulse gently pushing at the skin near her throat was quicker. He raised an eyebrow, pointed at his glasses. "Can I have them back, _sil vous plait_?"

She shook her head, and then threw the glasses as hard as she could. They smashed against a wall. He rounded on her; anger on his face—fear.

"What de fuck was dat for?" His face twisted; his brow furrowed. She was afraid she heard tears in his voice.

She grabbed his hand, squeezing it, making him go silent as he stared at their tangled fingers, a confused expression on his handsome face. "You shouldn't hide 'em, Remy."

"Gambit." He scolded her gently, shaking his head in disbelief. "We're training, so it's Gambit."

"Shouldn't hide 'em, Gambit." Then, she stomped on his foot.

X

He was intensely alert to her position. The warmth of her body was a beacon and he couldn't help but feel her movements. She was coming closer, slowly, steadily, moving with a purpose, a destination. He saw her eyes drop, assessing the distance between them, and he knew…He was the end of her walk. Her words ripped at him, echoing hollowly through his mind: "What's the matter, _Gambit_? Afraid everyone will see just what kind of a freak you really are?" He didn't give a damn what anyone in that mansion thought about his eyes. They could wet themselves at the sight of them for all he cared. But if she screamed…she'd shatter him.

"Eat shit, skunk-head," the smile felt sour on his lips; the words, sandpaper on his tongue.

"Fuck off, swamp-rat."

His lips curled; he ran his eyes up and down her body, leering behind the dark lenses. "You wish." The pulse at her throat quickened, beating a rhythm against her pale skin. He wanted to touch it, feel the power of her life against his fingertips. He wanted to make that little bump, bump race under his caress.

"Like you'd know where to stick it." A couple steps away, and already he could feel the heat from her body; feel the quickness of her breath. He did know where to stick it. And he had a few other ideas as well.

He chuckled. His voice felt rusty, disconnected from his body. "If it was just about sticking it somewhere, wouldn't be no fun." And he was a hair's breadth away in an instant. He could see the silky lines of her hair move under his breath, could feel the ache in her body—the need for touch—damn it, the desire. He wasn't sure if it was her desire or the raging inferno in his stomach. Damn empathy always had to piss off at the wrong time. "Go 'head, Miss'ippi. You t'ink you can handle it. Take 'em."

Her hand crept forward, the world moving in slow motion as he prepared himself for the screams. She removed his sunglasses, and he raised his face toward the electric lights, blinking away the pain. A heartbeat later and he turned his terrible eyes to her. He heard her gasp, felt the sting against his heart. Her eyes—green and glorious—widened, rippling pools of magnified green under a steady onset of tears. He felt the tears catch within his throat; each time she cried, she broke him. "Ain't all dat easy to handle, is it, Missi'ppi?" He reached for his sunglasses; missing the pretend comfort they gave him. "You can scream. Won't t'ink nothin' less of ya." He caught an earpiece with a hooked finger; she didn't relax her grip. "Can I have them back, _sil vous plait_?"

She shook her head, curls flung every which way. He caught a whiff of magnolias. He hated her for it. Hated her for the way she made him want to be. Hated her for the curls that his fingers should tangle, for the lips his mouth should kiss, for the tears he should prevent. And at the same time, he couldn't love anyone more. She threw his glasses; they shattered like she shattered him. And he hated her for his fear. She couldn't even look into his eyes without tears and now he couldn't hide them. "What de fuck was dat for?" And she grabbed his hand. She didn't bother to look at their fingers—didn't see how neatly, how perfectly her hand fit into his. She didn't seem to feel the heat, the tingle that made his fingers prickle with excitement, made him want to rub his hand down his thigh to numb the sensation. She didn't look; he couldn't tear his eyes away.

"You shouldn't hide 'em, Remy."

Her voice was tender. She demolished him again. He couldn't let her know. He couldn't let his guard down. She was so beautiful; holding his hand like it was glass, like it was precious, like it meant something. Her fingers gripped a little tighter. How would he ever piece himself back together? He shook his head. "Gambit." He was sure his voice cracked. "We're training, so it's Gambit."

She smiled. "Shouldn't hide 'em, Gambit."

He felt himself reach for her. His fingers spread, strained, pushed toward her despite the fact that he was channeling every ounce of self-control to his arms. He wanted to touch her, embrace her. He wanted to tuck those stubborn forelocks behind her ears and hold them there while his palms warmed her cheeks. He wanted to look into her eyes and have her look back at him. She wasn't afraid of him. She wasn't going to scream. How was he ever going to piece himself back together? Almost touching. Almost there. A little farther. He was going to pull her toward him. Hell, he'd kiss her. He'd kiss her with every fiber of his being. A real kiss. Not like Joseph kissed her. He'd hold on until their tongues were sliding against each other and she was flushed with heat and want. He'd fight against her powers. He didn't even care if it killed him. He'd never be whole again. Not without her. And he didn't care.

A pain erupted in his foot. It felt as if someone tried to jackhammer right through the top of it. Instead of pulling her to him, he pushed her away. An ugly purple-red rectangle cut through his nerves. It was the exact shape of her boot's heel. And he couldn't help himself. He hated her all over again.

X

"_Damnez-le!_ (Damn it!) You fuckin' piece of _merde_! What de hell was dat for! I was tryin' _appeler une trêve_ (to call a truce). But _non_! You _stupide_ bitch!" He held his wounded foot and hopped a few times away from her. Falling to the mat, he swore again—switching from French to English and back again so fast that Rogue's head swam. About the third time he called her a bitch, she'd had it.

"Fuck you!" She roared, her green eyes flashing daggers. "You go on and on about how you want to be friends, but your so easy to change your mind the minute everythin' ain't exactly the way you want it!" He continued to rant. "SHUT-UP!"

He froze, only his hands continued to move, rubbing the recessed square on his foot. She stood in front of him, her hands on her hips, her eyebrows arched sharply over her eyes.

"Ah guarantee it don't hurt nearly as bad as my feelings did! Consider us equal now—square. Besides, it ain't like Ah messed up your face or nuthin'! You're worse then a girl. An' how dare you get all high an' mighty with me about me being afraid to touch when you were ashamed of your eyes!" She spit out the word 'ashamed', angered that the world was the way that it was and that he had to worry about them at all. It broke her heart that he hid them; it bothered her more than it should have, she reasoned, after all, she wasn't his girlfriend. But they were so beautiful, so perfectly Remy that it sickened her to know he had been ashamed of them. And she was willing to let him know it. "You're a hypocrite!" She pushed at him then, her gloved hands balling into half-fists and connecting with the thick muscles of his shoulders; he didn't budge.

He was looking up at her from his place on the mat, the slow burn of his eyes radiating from under half-closed lids and making her swallow. If he had been good-looking before, then he was perfection now, his dark eyes—passionate, fiery—completed him in the same way the sunglasses had distorted him. She felt a lock of hair quiver at her lips and brushed it away, wetting her mouth with a nervous pink tongue.

X

He felt his mouth go dry. He had never wanted to touch one girl so much in his entire adult life. When she moved away the stray hair and licked her lips, he bit back the urge to tackle her. Instead, he offered her his hand. "Help me up?"

X

She swallowed, the air around her seemed heavy with humidity, and it felt like she was trying to breathe through soup or move through mud. Everything seemed deeper, thicker, and she moved to take his hand in slow motion. Her fingers slid against his and she felt the heat of his touch burn through her gloves. It wasn't the first time and she hoped it wouldn't be the last. His hand seemed to swallow hers and she was amazed at how nicely it seemed to fit into his palm and under his fingers. As she was admiring the long, strong fingers she felt a tug on her arm. Before she knew what was happening, she was on the floor, gazing up into two smoldering eyes and a devilish smirk.

"Now, Miss'ippi, we even." His face dipped down, coming so near to her she could feel his breath against her skin. And she was certain he was going to kiss her. _Gawd_, she hoped he was going to kiss her. "I am sorry for the bar." And she believed him.

"Ah know."

He nodded, content with her answer. "But jus' for de record, I let your boyfriend hit me."

She rolled her eyes, bringing herself to sit across from him. "Sure ya did."

"Non. I really did. But I got some bad news for you."

"An' what's that?"

"Your boyfriend. He hits like a girl."

She chuckled. "'S' funny. You scream like one."

And he smiled. Really, truly smiled.

She smiled back.

X

"Dimples, 'Ro. Dimples! You said so yourself! He was smiling! And there were dimples." JP was pacing in front of his friend's white couch, muttering.

Ororo rubbed circles against her temples, her eyes closed and her head resting against an armrest. "I know. I saw. Be quiet." The weather goddess was currently done for the day. Pffft. Kaput. Done. Not only had she seen a strange transformation in her unofficial little brother, but also her students had been one layer out from the seventh circle. She cursed the genius that had scheduled her with three back-to-backs of meteorology before she got one break. Scott. He would pay soon enough. But the problem of the dimples was currently the main focus of her haggard attention. Courtesy of JP. He would pay as well.

"How can you be so calm about all of this?"

She snapped an eye open and shot lasers at him. "Would you rather I become hysterical?"

"I'd feel better."

"Well, suck it up, JP, 'cause I've got enough on my plate without joining you in a freak-out party. Besides, it probably doesn't mean anything."

His jaw hit the floor. "Doesn't mean anything! Doesn't mean anything! Need I remind you that the last time our little brother showed his dimples, he ended up working through half of the free world's heterosexual women…and I'm not entirely sure there wasn't a guy thrown in there every now and again for a change of pace."

She glared at him. "Let it go, JP. Remy's as straight as you are gay."

"That's a terrible thing to say. And also a little hurtful." When she didn't reply, he continued, "How can you say it doesn't mean anything? _Dieu_! You don't think he's in love with her do you?"

"It wouldn't matter if he was. You know how he is. With the touching and the kissing and the…"

"Fucking?"

"Yeah. Besides, he's got a girlfriend. With black lingerie. Who he can touch. Everywhere. And Rogue's got a major fear of rejection. And he's got major notoriety. So it doesn't matter if he had his dimples out. Nothing can come of it."

"_C'est pour cela que je suis inquiété_..(That's why I am worried.)"

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So sorry about how long it has taken me to update! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I want to thank everyone who reviewed! I totally appreciate it! Please keep reviewing!

Thanks to: Alecto's Muse, Rayne XX, vinh, toomakeyoulaugh, Terilicious, Mikey, Chica De Los Ojos Cafes, theblondeone07, RGMarie, PsChOtHeRaPy17, Leash, musagirl15, ishandahalf, Jedi Ditz, Spicy Sweet, and Lucia de'Medici. Also thanks for adding my story or me as a favorite! Definitely an honor to be a favorite :)

Also thanks for the Congrats! We're very excited about the baby!


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

_An ordinary boy an ordinary name  
But ordinary's just not good enough today_

Our Lady of Peace, Superman's Dead

Friday night and he was holed up on the roof.

Which was, in every sense of the word, strange. Usually he had an over-abundance of dates or at the very least, clubs, to satisfy his insatiable appetite for entertainment, but tonight was an exception. It wasn't that he couldn't get a date; he just didn't feel up to the whole party scene. There didn't seem to be a point to going out and paying ridiculously large amounts of money for ridiculously small amounts of alcohol, nor did he want to fuck another pointless, nameless bimbo.

He had hoped to drown his mounting sexual desire in another night with Betsy, but she was MIA. Apparently, Sam Guthrie had his eye on the beautiful Brit and they had gone to the movies together. It seemed strange picturing the sophisticated Betsy Braddock in the same vicinity as the Kentuckian, but Remy had to admire the balls it took for the young man to ask her out. Especially to the movies. He shuddered and decided to make it his business to teach the boy how to pick appropriate dates. Betsy was more of a champagne girl, not a beer girl.

He probably should have felt jealous or spiteful that the girl he had been…_seeing_…had decided to go out with another man. And, in truth, it did sting a little; mostly it just pinched at his ego and gave him a bad case of blue balls, but it didn't bother him as much as it had a right to. Besides, it wasn't like he wanted a relationship with her…it had all just started as a meaningless fling…and he hadn't really been in any kind of rush to make it more than that. However, he was desperately in need of a sexual release and she was so good at meeting his needs.

Unfortunately, his needs were beginning to change shape and the realization behind that was unnerving him. And it didn't help that the shape of those changing needs had disappeared out the door with…_Joseph_. He swallowed the foul taste in his mouth and dragged out the cigarettes.

Which was another reason why, instead of going out on the town, he had decided to claim a small portion of the roof for a little soul-searching exercise.

He withdrew a cigarette from its pack and set it in between his lips. A light tap from his finger, and the paper caught, a small flame flashed outward before being dragged down into the tobacco. It was cold out and he pulled his trench coat tighter around him before jamming his hands into the too-full pockets. His face was completely exposed; with no sunglasses to protect them, his eyes stung against the winter wind. It was a bittersweet sort of triumph, he decided, to finally have them out in the open. There was no honor in hiding, but having one's shell ripped away was downright painful…and everyone had their shells…

He sighed, dragged a lazy thumb across an eyebrow and plopped the cigarette back in his mouth. She hadn't been afraid of him. She hadn't screamed at the sight of his eyes, hadn't swirled against their depths and declared him an unholy terror. She just told him not to cover them up. _Don't hide._ He snorted. And there she was covered from head to toe because she was afraid of her skin. He wasn't afraid of it.

He was afraid of _her_.

He was afraid of the way his hand tingled whenever they touched. He was afraid of the sweet lilt of her voice. He was afraid of the scent of her hair. She ripped at his shell like no other. She demanded nothing and yet, it was so much more than he was certain he could give. He didn't understand the lust he felt for her. Why did he want her like he did? How was it that he could hate her so much and not at all, all at the same time? It didn't make sense. But the more he thought of her, the more he ached, and the more he wished he'd kissed her during their sparring session. There was no way that having his consciousness sucked out of him could hurt more than the ache coursing through his entire body whenever she was near. No way.

He squashed his cigarette under a booted heel and scooted off the roof. Landing like a cat, he pushed through the balcony doors to his bedroom and shrugged off his coat. Friday night and the mansion was silent as a graveyard. He knew Betts and Guthrie were out; he rolled his eyes, trying once again to picture the two of them together but gave up. He'd seen Rogue leave with that gutless, silver-haired jerk on her arm. It sickened him to find that images of the two of them sprang almost instantly to his mind. Continuing his mental rundown of who was left at the mansion, he opened up his empathy for verification. It buzzed at the back of his brain. Someone was having a hard time of it.

Picking up a pack of playing cards from his bureau, he pushed through his door and followed the buzz through the corridor, into the elevator, and down to the sublevels. When the doors slid open, he was attacked. Emotions—anger, sadness, betrayal, and jealousy—barreled over him, knocking him to the floor. He shook his head, clearing out the emotional debris and clamping down his mental shields, before rolling into the hallway. He heard the wailing a second later.

Something was stuck in his throat and he swallowed it down. It returned almost instantly and he knew it must be his heart. It felt like it was breaking…only it wasn't…but someone else's most decidedly was. He continued down the corridor, stopping in front of an office; the door was ajar.

Scott's office was wrecked. Filing cabinets were tipped over, their manila-foldered guts strewn across the carpet, smeared with bloody-pink highlighter marks. Chairs were overturned, tables upended; it looked like a battlefield where the home-team had taken some tough hits. In the middle of it all, clutching what looked like a splintered picture frame, sat Scott Summers. He was shaking, crying, and gripping the frame in white-knuckled hands.

And Remy knew that the home-team had indeed taken some major hits.

He cleared his throat; Scott's head shot up and pinned him in his spot with a wild look. A second later, and Remy shook it off, pushing the door open the rest of the way and entering the room. Wordlessly, he turned over a small table, swiping the paper dust off its top with the back of his hand. Next, he righted two chairs and set them on either side of the table. Stacks of papers were in the way, and he kicked them to the side so that the chairs sat flat against the floor. Dropping into one of the chairs, he pulled out his deck of cards and began shuffling.

All the while, Scott had been watching him, his usually stoic demeanor cracked under the strain of his emotions. Sighing, he hefted himself up from the floor and moved to the empty chair across from Remy. He set the broken picture frame on the table near him.

"Blackjack." And that was all he said.

Remy nodded, flipped out the cards, and studied his hand.

After a few silent hands, Scott sighed again. "Her picture fell."

Remy glanced at the cracked frame and saw a beautiful redhead smiling back at him through shattered glass. He swallowed. Jean had always smiled. He dropped his cards to the table. "Busted."

Scott flipped his over. "Nineteen."

The younger man nodded, gathered the cards, and shuffled again. "It's a good picture."

"Yeah." He was staring at it and his voice broke. "I miss her."

He nodded again, dealing the cards smoothly. There didn't seem to be any words that he could say without sounding condescending, so he didn't say anything.

"I killed her, you know…we all did."

Remy's head shot up at that and he stared into his friend's face. "Scott…"

"It's true!" The self-hate that had been boiling right below the surface was beginning to spill over as Scott pushed the cards on to the floor. "She died to save us! To save me! She got out of the Blackbird and used her powers to lift us to safety and she let herself die!" Tears streamed out from under his visor. "I let her die. I-I couldn't save her, Remy…I tried, but I couldn't save her. I let her die…" He broke down.

Remy licked his lips. "_Non_, you didn't, Scott. You remember her everyday. You honor her everyday. You haven't let her die. Jean—Jean wouldn't want you blamin' yourself like dis. She wanted you to live." He dragged a hand through his hair, completely aware of how utterly uncomfortable he was, how perfectly out of place he felt. There were no right words; no magic chants that he could say to help his friend. But he tried nevertheless. "Jean needs you to be all right. We need you to be all right. Your life is her gift." He was never any good at these kind of talks…where was the professor? Where was Hank? They knew how to help people, how to offer prolific words that uplifted people's spirits. Not him. He was just a thief. "Please, Scott. You have to be all right."

Scott swallowed and swiped his cheeks with the back of his hand, visibly pulling himself together. "I still miss her."

Remy nodded again. "I know."

"You missed the memorial."

"I'm sorry."

"The flowers were nice though; she would have liked them."

"She was an amazing woman, Scott."

He nodded, let out a small laugh. "She was a terrible cook, though." Tears flowed again; he wiped them away, forcing an unsteady laugh.

Remy licked his lips, cleared his throat. "Remember de time she tried to make gumbo?"

He laughed again; it was a little stronger. "Was that what that was?"

They laughed together. Scott blew out an uneasy breath and looked around his office. "Gawd, look at this mess. Guess we'd better clean it up."

"What's dis 'we' business? I didn't trash your office."

"Thanks a lot, buddy."

"Now hold on, we'll settle dis like real adults—"

"You wanna slug it out?"

"Haha. No," he pushed the deck of cards toward his friend. "If you get the high card, I'll help. If you don't, I'm getting a beer."

"You really are a saint, you know that?"

Remy nodded. "True. Draw."

Scott pulled a card from the pile and waited for his friend to do the same. Then he flipped his own over; it landed in front of Remy. "Queen of Clubs."

"You don' even give a man a chance, do you?"

"Well, what do you have?"

Remy palmed the deck and set his card at the bottom before shuffling them all together. "It's embarrassin'." He eyed the upturned room with a scowl. "Where do you want me to start?"

"Let's fix the filing cabinets and re-file all these papers. What was I thinking?" Scott groused, pushing away from the table.

Remy smirked and pushed the cards into his back pocket, the ace he had drawn tucked firmly in the center of the deck. "You was t'inkin': _how can I spend de evening wit' dat ever-charming Cajun?"_

"Keep talking and I'll be thinking: _where can I dump this body?_"

X

"Ah, Remy, so good of you to join me."

He winced at the cheerful tone in the professor's voice and slid into the leather chair opposite the mahogany desk. "You're a hard man to ignore, what wit' you screamin' in my head ev'ry two minutes."

Xavier chuckled. "Yes, well, I did call for you over an hour ago."

"Yeah, at seven o'clock."

The older man didn't seem to understand as he just raised an eyebrow and searched his former pupil's face. "Yes," he answered at last, his shoulders shrugging slightly.

Remy decided to point out the obvious. "On a Sat'rday mornin'."

Realization sprung out over his features and he smiled, nodding his head. "Oh, yes, I see. Well, progress waits for no man and the like. It was urgent that I speak with you regarding your Danger Room schematics."

Red and black eyes narrowed. "Scotty put you up to dis?"

"Don't even try and blame me," Scott Summers pushed through the office door and plopped down in the chair beside his friend. "I was planning to sleep until noon after yesterday." He turned to the professor. "What's Gambit done now?"

Xavier pursed his lips together to keep from laughing at the evil eye currently being directed at his principal. "It is, in fact, very interesting. I have been recording the Danger Room sessions using a multitude of different programs. One is simply a regular recording, like one would watch on television. Another allows for us to witness the mutant bio-signature by utilizing the electromagnetic scale along with a couple other little technologies that Hank and I have come across. With this, I can see the energy being expended in mutants, their power's auras in a sense. That is the one that I find the most intriguing in your case, Remy."

"Great." He crossed his arms over his chest and slid down in the chair. "You woke me up for dis?"

Scott nodded. "I have to agree with him, professor. Couldn't this have waited until later? It certainly doesn't sound as urgent as you made it out."

Xavier ignored them. "Been experiencing any changes in your powers lately, Remy? Any uncontrollable issues arise? Perhaps with your empathy?"

Scott turned to face the younger man. "You're empathy has been off, hasn't it? Like you can't reel it in. That's why you attacked Joseph, because you were sensing Rogue's fear."

Remy didn't reply; his hands had become very interested in the hem of his t-shirt.

Clearing his throat, Xavier continued. "Any other subtle changes? Maybe tingles, little urges or fears that if you hold on too tight, you'll loose the kinetic energies?" Nothing. Not a single word. It was like conversing with a brick wall. "I want to show you something."

He pushed a concealed wooden slab up from the top of his desk. Below the little door was a number pad. Pressing in a code, he closed the panel; it clicked shut. A television screen lowered from the ceiling to his right. A second later, a recording from Remy's first Danger Room session was playing. The only thing that glowed in the room was Remy's figure. His body emitted a red fire, the color of a normal body temperature. Everything seemed perfectly normal to him, and he said so.

"Don' see what ya'll are worryin' 'bout. Looks like any old thermal video to me."

Scott agreed. "I'm not sure we understand, professor."

"Take a look at the first session with Ms. Braddock." Two figures appeared on the screen this time, each glowing the warm red of a normal body temperature. "I was curious to try and understand this phenomenon," Xavier explained, watching as the two bodies moved ever closer to each other. "I needed some sort of starting point for the way your powers are working. As you can see, at this point, energy is within the normal range of expenditure."

Again the panel slid open; again he ran his fingers over the keypad. Once again, Remy was by himself, standing in front of the Danger Room's doors. Xavier turned his brown eyes toward the two men, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "And this, as you say, is the pay-off. Watch closely." As the doors slid open, Remy's color changed, stretched out from the lines of his form, surrounding him in a sphere of dazzling, white-hot energy. A nanosecond later, another form—the typical red—barreled into him. They both fell to the ground—red arms and legs sprawled across a ball of white. The picture froze; Xavier was grinning.

It was downright spooky, Remy decided, dragging his gaze from Xavier's face to the monitor.

Scott exhaled rather loudly beside him, causing Remy to swivel in his chair and face his friend. "What happened, Professor?" He turned his visored gaze toward the young man seated to his left. "It's like Remy's powers went haywire."

"That's the beauty of it, Scott, I'm not entirely sure that they did go 'haywire.' In fact, I think they were creating a sort of cocoon to protect him."

"Protect him? From what?"

If Remy didn't think Xavier's grin could get any bigger, he was wrong. "From Rogue," came the triumphant reply and Scott's brow creased like a canyon.

"Pardon?"

"I've had these bio-signature video cameras installed in the Danger Room for quite some time. I haven't monitored them as properly as I should have it seems. The only reason I decided to check them now was at your and Ororo's insistence that something was wrong with Remy's empathic abilities. Because Remy is an energy-wielding mutant first, I hypothesized that if his more secondary powers were having problems, it was a safe estimate that his primary were also experiencing static. Apparently the cause of the static is Rogue.

"Rogue's powers, in crude terms, allow her to siphon the energies, memories, psyches of those she touches. Generally those energies, though powerful, are not experienced at a huge volume. When Remy comes in a close vicinity of Rogue, his powers—his energies—become supercharged. I was very surprised at this and decided to test my hypothesis by observing other trainees." He pressed his fingers across the pad once more. "This sparring session is between Rogue and Joseph. I thought that maybe the reaction is a more chemical attraction; that those physically attracted to Rogue would react with more energy."

Two figures battled. Both remained the normal level of red.

"I also considered the possibility that only energy-wielding mutants would respond this way toward Rogue's powers. This is a match between Rogue and Jubilee." Again, only red stared back at them.

Xavier's smile was deepening once again. "This is the session from a few days ago." Two distinctly feminine forms shone red in the center of the room. A third form approached. The closer he came to Rogue, the more his color shone white, the more it leaked away from his body encasing it in a type of energized shell. One of the women left, leaving the white-lighted man and a single red-lighted female alone. Presently, they began to spar. With every inch that they came closer, the shell glowed brighter. Whenever a touch, a connection was maintained, the brightness was amplified.

"You see, Remy," Xavier's voice seemed breathless, "I believe that you're powers increase as a way to protect you from the effects of Rogue's powers. In other words, your powers provide you with a sort of force-field." He leaned back in his chair. "Rogue might very well be able to touch…_you_."

Scott sat back in his chair, blowing a breath into his hair and turning to look at the silent Cajun to his left. "Well," was all he could manage.

"Of course, I'm not completely certain yet," Xavier clarified, smoothing the hidden panel back into his desk. "Hank has some tests he would like to run in order to determine whether or not this phenomenon would actually allow for skin to skin contact, but as of now, we believe that Remy could maintain physical contact with Rogue for a limited amount of time. We can't be sure how long just yet as we are not one hundred percent sure of how Rogue's powers will react to the energies created by Remy. But the possibility of finally understanding how and why Rogue's powers work the way they do is certainly exciting." Steepling his fingers together, Xavier nodded. "Come in, Hank."

A second later, the door to the office opened and in bounded the blue-furred geneticist and mansion doctor. He was grinning from ear to ear. Placing a hand on the youngest man's shoulder, he peered into a set of stony red and black eyes. "Oh my stars and garters, this is exciting! Do you have any idea what this finding could mean for our southern belle? And who would have thought that our little thief would have the key locked up in his own powers? Well," Hank allowed himself a chuckle, "a lock-pick at the very least."

X

Three hours later and Remy slammed the door to his room shut. His head, now full of the calculations, hypotheses, whimsies, and who knew what else, felt as if it was going to implode. He wanted nothing more than to stand under a hot stream of water and drown in a tall bourbon on the rocks before sliding into a nice bed with some nameless bimbo. Hell, she could even be faceless for all he cared at that moment because that would mean no attachment, no conscience, and no gawd-damn responsibility!

Not that it would matter, he conceded to himself, it wouldn't matter if he fucked all the girls within a hundred-mile radius; he would still be the only man alive that could touch the untouchable. It should have made him proud, should have made him puff out his chest, but it didn't. But not because he didn't want the job. He did. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to feel the plump of her lips under his own, wanted to run his fingers through her wind-blown curls, and gather them in his fists as his thumbs smoothed across her cheeks. He wanted to feel the softness of her cheek against his face. He closed his eyes, the pounding in his head winning over his stubbornness, and sank into his bed. Able to touch the untouchable, and she didn't want him.

He knew what he would do, knew what needed to be done, but it snarled in his stomach, an angry dog watching another chew on his bone. He would submit to the tests Hank had described, submit to the chance that she could very well drain his memories and powers. He would allow those pale, silken fingers to graze his own so that they could understand why her powers worked the way they did. He would help her find the control she so desperately wanted…no, needed. He would help her…so that she could finally touch…He would help her touch so that another man could have her. That was what sickened him the most, the knowledge that he had been created to touch her—the only one in the known world who could—and he was going to help her touch another. The thought of Joseph's stolen kiss accordioned in his mind—folding over and under itself through the torment of his migraine—making him want to retch out his heart.

He could touch her. He could taste her. But, he wouldn't. Instead, he would bear the badge of responsibility. Because that's what X-Men did. They fought for others, not themselves. And deep down, no matter how much he hid it, that's what he was, that's what he wanted to be. A hero. He would help her so that another could…he didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to imagine what they would do together. It would only serve to upset the howling animal in his gut, and he couldn't stand for that. If that animal got out, there'd be no reeling it back in…not even the X-Men would be able to handle that.

When he awoke, the January sun was dipping behind the horizon, signaling the end for the shortened winter days. His head had stopped aching at some point during his agitated nap, but damned if he knew when. He turned to look at his alarm clock and sighed. He'd slept away the day. Not the first time, sure, but normally he had considerably better company. He scratched his fingers through his hair, deciding whether or not he needed a little bit of the nightlife tonight or if he should just scrap the whole day and go back to sleep. A knock on his door and he closed his eyes before uttering a sleep-heavy "'S open!"

Betsy Braddock strode in, her long legs flashing in the fading light from his window. "Wake up, sleepyhead!" She sat next to him, crossing those silken stilts at the knee so that her short dress fell in a puddle high on her thighs. "Sorry I missed you last night, but I thought since it was our first Saturday at the Institute, we should celebrate by staying in." She leaned toward him, her lips immediately seizing his attention. "What do you say, luv?"

He smiled; it was slow, curling as he answered, "You read my mind, _chére_."

X

There was absolutely no reason not to fall in love with her. She was fun, intelligent, beautiful. Her conversation was clever, witty; she turned heads when they walked into a room. He could see the lust rise in heated clouds above the male population as she swiveled her hips, clung to his arm, and threw back her head with laughter. She played footsie under the table, even if there wasn't a tablecloth. She was brazen, proud, sure of herself. She was very much like him. Sexuality—breathless and hot—practically dripped from her olive skin; heaven knew it dripped from her body. Her lips were strawberries—luscious, sweet, plump—and he enjoyed them very much. The way they nipped at his own was sinful; he'd have to make confession the next time he was in the city…or not, since he planned to commit this sin again and again.

She was feverish with want, pulling him closer to her, wrapping her long legs about his waist, kissing him fervently, holding him to her. She whispered, purred, "Remy…" and lowered her eyelids over lusty violet eyes. Her fingers already working, slowly, agonizingly, trailing down his torso, as she undid his shirt's buttons. She kissed him, her tongue sweeping past his lips, and he moaned, letting her in.

There was absolutely no reason not to fall in love with her.

After discarding his shirt, she ran delicately manicured hands up his chest, her tongue involuntarily licking at her lips at the feel of his musculature. She leaned into him, her tongue trailing from the top of his pants up to his chest. She bit at him and grinned at his sharp intake of breath. Her fingers went to work loosening his belt, unbuttoning his pants.

There was absolutely no reason not to fall in love with her.

He grabbed her shoulders, pulling her toward him with ferocity, crushing her lips under his own, stopping the tantalizing business of her fingers. He kissed her hard, silencing her onslaught, turning her legs, her body to gel. She couldn't antagonize him any more; she was putty in his hands. She moaned into his mouth. Her eyes were closed; her fingers wove into his hair. She was beautiful. She was fun. She was everything he should want. And she wanted him. She wanted _him_.

There was absolutely no reason not to fall in love with her.

And yet, there was absolutely no reason he could.

X

He watched wordlessly as she gathered herself back into her dress. The material was so thin it was almost transparent. It hugged at her curves, molested her breasts, and all in all provided him with a visual smorgasbord. His hands itched to touch her, but he laced them together and placed them behind his head, his eyes watching her silently. She shimmied the dress past her hips, the length falling at her thighs, and caught his eye. Her smile was dazzling. "Well, luv," she breathed, sidling up to the bed and leaning over him so that he caught the full effect of her cleavage, "I had a great time."

He dipped his head, a small smile on his lips. "As always, _chére_, we make one helluva team."

She laughed. The tingle made his stomach drop. "That we do, Remy." She reached for him, her fingers lazily tracing circles on his chest. Her voice dropped, "I'd like to continue this partnership for a little while longer."

His heart seized; eyes like the green Mississippi shallows flashed through his mind. His face did not betray him. His shields did not fail him. "Let's," he said instead, his eyelids dropping as he studied her. He raised his hand to her face; his thumb traced her bottom lip. "But what about Sam?"

She leaned into his palm before sighing and moving toward the door. "I'm going out with him later," she cooed, her eyes sharp behind those sooty lashes, "Don't tell me your jealous. Let's consider this more of a business arrangement. After all, I'm not the object of your _true_ desire, am I? Too bad she's hands-off." An obnoxious smirk graced her features and she wriggled her fingers at him before closing the door behind her.

"Bitch," he said to himself, before rolling to his side and covering his head with a pillow. "Damn telepaths." And he punched the mattress.

He lay there for a while, the darkness allowing his mind to work overtime. Rogue was seeing Joseph; she had made that abundantly clear. She had skipped out on duties to go on a date with him; she'd gone out with him the night before…it was obvious that there was an interest there. But it wasn't in him.

Truth be told, it pissed him off a little. He growled into the darkness, throwing the pillow to the floor. He could touch her. He _wanted_ to touch her. And maybe something more. Maybe, he wanted more than just a physical relationship…maybe he wanted… What the hell did it matter if he could touch her? She didn't want him anywhere near her! Not really. Not as more than…friends. _Stop thinking about her as anything more!_

He heard a light knock on his door and he drew in a shaky breath, thankful for any distraction. "'S open."

Not a sound.

"Come on in!"

Still nothing.

"Oh for…" he slid off the bed, muttering a few choice obscenities in French, and stomped toward the door. "What de hell do you want?" And he threw it open. Standing before him, her pale skin glowing with an otherworldly light stood Rogue. She had her head down and she looked up at him from under lowered lids. Her long hair was swept back in a ponytail, but the stubborn white locks that framed her face fell against her cheeks.

He found couldn't breathe.

Finally he inhaled enough oxygen that his vocal cords began to work. "R-Rogue. D-Di'n't know it was you." He followed the lowering of her gaze to his boxers and sucked in a breath. "Sorry." And he dropped back into his room, leaving the door open, an invitation to enter. "Di'n't expect company." He explained, pulling a t-shirt over his chest and giving a quick once-over of his room.

She followed him in and he instantly felt self-conscious of his living quarters. Dirty piles of clothes littered the room and he winced when he realized she was gazing at the rumpled bed. Quickly, muttering an apology that he wasn't sure she heard, he tugged on the blankets, smoothing their wrinkles and fluffing the pillows. The sickeningly sweet smell of sex floated up from the sheets and he gritted his teeth, embarrassed that she would smell his offenses toward her, even if she didn't want him.

She stood at his desk, and he caught her green eyes from the corners of his own. "Ah—Ah talked to the professor and Hank."

He stopped trying to kick a pile of dirty clothes under the bed and looked at her. His red eyes glittered, "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She pulled out the chair and sat down. "Just wanted to say 'thank you' in advance for…you know."

He nodded. "No problem. Dat's what…_friends_ do." He smiled; it faltered. "What does…Joe…t'ink 'bout all dis?" The name was poison on his tongue.

She shrugged. "Ah haven't told him yet. But we're supposed to go out to dinner again tonight," she added. "Ah guess Ah'll tell 'im then."

He nodded again, his stomach churning at the thought of Joe's lips on hers. "He'll be excited."

"Yeah." She stood up, pushing the chair back into its place behind the desk, and offered a tight smile. "Ah'm glad we're…_friends_ now."

He matched her smile. "_J'aussi_. (Me too.)"

He watched as she left his room. A heartbeat later and he was dusting plaster from bloody knuckles.

* * *

I want to thank all of those who reviewed: Naemis, Jedi Ditz, homeric, Ludi, Lindsey, TaraFish, Rogue151, vinh, RayneXX, BizarreLemon, IvyZoe, willa. j, Alecto's Muse, Chica De Los Ojos Cafe, Leash, musagirl15, Lucia de' Medici, and Ishandahalf.

I also want to thank those of you who added Broken Road as a favorite!

I know that this chapter was abnormally one-sided, but bear with me. There's a method to my madness...sometimes...but really in this case there is! 'Course now I have all of these questions! What will Remy do with Betsy? Will Rogue's seemingly budding relationship with Joe drive him over the edge? What is it that he really wants? Can he be friends with someone that he's attracted to? Will he spend more time with Scott now that he sees how truly damaged his friend is? Where was JP through all of this? What will come of Hank and Xavier's investigations? Will Rogue and Remy ever be truly able to touch?

Oh, and yeah, in other news...looks like it's gonna be a little Rogue, not a little Remy. :)

Anamarie


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

_I don't wanna touch you too much baby  
'Cos making love to you might drive me crazy_

Def Leppard, Love Bites

She could touch.

When Hank explained the phenomenon concerning Remy's powers, she wasn't able to believe them. The whole thing seemed beyond her span of comprehension. Not only could she touch, she could touch him. How was that even possible? She understood the idea that his powers protected him like a cocoon, but how his body knew to react to her in that way was a little too sci-fi for her.

Of course, there was no hard proof that his little white-lighted shell would actually protect him from her vampire-like powers. It was only a theory, she reminded herself, without any evidence to back it up.

Hank made that little iota of information very clear:

"Now, Rogue, you must understand that all of this is presently at the hypothesis stage. We simply have not run any tests to prove or disprove this theory as of yet. In fact, that is one of the main reasons for speaking with you today. We need, not only your permission to run tests, but also Remy's. We spoke with him earlier in hopes of retaining his a-okay. He agreed to the tests. Now, we need to know if you will acquiesce to them as well."

"What are they?" her voice seemed so small and unsure.

He blew out a breath and ran his fingers through the thick blue fur on his face. Adjusting his spectacles next, he grabbed a clipboard off his desk and cleared his voice. "You have to touch Remy. Not just that," he added, licking his lips, "you have to hold on to him." His eyes clouded momentarily as the fear flickered across her face. "We only assume that his powers will protect him and we only assume that it will be for a limited amount of time. We have to figure out if they will and for how long."

"Until Ah suck away his force field, you mean." She shook her head. "Ah don't wanna risk it, Hank. What if Ah hurt him? What if my powers work too quickly?" What if I kill him?

Hank cleared his throat once again. "Unfortunately, it could be in your best interest to imprint him. We believe that since Remy's powers super-charge whenever he is near you, it may require more effort on your part to—as you say—'suck away his force field.' Because of this, we think that an MRI of your brain during the…imprinting process could actually allow for us to see which area your powers span from. In other words, Rogue, we could very well be able to map out the location of your powers and create a legitimate type of drug-therapy to help you control your powers around others. You would be able to touch anyone you wanted."

Anyone she wanted? Funny she couldn't think past touching him.

It struck her as strange that he had agreed to the tests when the risk was so apparent and she said so. "Remy agreed to this?"

Hank's lips turned into a grin. The presence of his fang-like canines made the gesture a little more menacing than was meant to be; the pride dancing in his eyes assured her of that. "He did."

"What did you have to promise him?" She knew it sounded skeptical, knew that it was more cynical than she really felt. But how anyone could readily agree to the possibility of having their souls sucked out of them for nothing was a little too far-fetched for her to buy. Besides, Remy didn't strike her as being a 'something for nothing' type of guy.

Hank did not share in her cynicism. In fact, he looked downright insulted by it. His eyes clouded, his brow furrowed, and he answered her in a clipped tone. "Despite what you may have heard about his past, Remy is an X-Man, Rogue. And a damn fine one at that." That having been said, he turned on his heel and stalked away.

X

She rested her head against the wall of her bedroom and sighed. Perhaps Remy truly was doing this simply because a teammate was in need, but somehow she doubted it. He was one of those guys that didn't tilt his hand, didn't lay all the cards out at one time. He was masterful. Control ruled him in a way that she couldn't understand. He seemed to radiate it, a tantalizing aura that was scary and sexy at the same time. Even when he seemed random, she had a sneaky feeling he was still completely and utterly in charge. Not that he couldn't lose it, she reminded herself, thinking back to the way he'd burst into the control room and cold-cocked Joe. A shiver ran down her spine and goose bumps broke out over her skin. She didn't know which was worse—Remy in complete control or completely out of control. Either way the idea of him set her insides on fire and she wondered if other girls felt that same flame licking away whenever he was near. Now, that she didn't doubt for a second.

And she could touch him.

By all accounts she had the physical ability to quench the fiery pit that hammered against her stomach every time he was near. She could pull off those infuriating gloves and feel the heat from his palm against her bare skin instead of through fabric. She wondered if the tingle, the jolt, that always accompanied his touch would feel the same skin to skin. She licked her lips. It would probably feel stronger, warmer, softer. She peeled away her gloves and ran her own fingers over the knuckles of her right hand. He had touched her there on numerous occasions. When she had offered to help him to his feet in the Danger Room, he had taken her hand. The heat had felt so…good…and his hand had slipped over hers, covering it in his grasp, delicate, yet firm, tender, yet powerful. She closed her eyes, swirled her fingertips over the back of her hand. She wondered what his skin would feel like against her own. Wondered if his hands moved with the same fluidity of his gait. Wondered if his fingers held that same devil-may-care swagger that twisted his hips. Wondered if he could make her move like that…wondered if he would…

She swallowed. A flush was burning at her cheeks and rocketing past every square-inch of skin that she could see. Even her hands were beginning to turn a lovely shade of rose. She had to stop thinking in that way. Remy was her friend; they'd decided that during their sparring session. They were friends and nothing more…but the potential for something more had not been there before, her mind argued, now there was a chance that perhaps they could be something besides just friends. No! Her conscience decided to make its untimely entrance. She was seeing Joseph. _Ring a bell?_ Joseph was taking her to dinner. Joseph had taken her out last night. Joseph was a perfectly good man who liked her. And she knew that he liked her. _So, why then?_ She questioned that pesky conscience. _Why am I thinking about Remy_?

It was only because she could touch him. Nothing more.

Her stomach twisted and she knew she was lying to herself. There was something about the Cajun that insinuated itself in her. He did something to her, produced something within her that she couldn't control…he had all the control…and, heaven help her, she liked that. She liked that her skin was on fire whenever he so much as touched her hand. She liked that he invaded her personal space, liked that his eyes burned. There was something undeniably masculine about him. A stubborn strength that poured from his soul, it was more than his arms, more than his abdominals, more than his body. It was deep and wild and she wanted it. More importantly, she wanted him. She wanted to control him…to free him from his world of planning and strategizing…to feel his strength blossomed, unfurled. Unleashed. To feel that control pour into her, to feel that strength feed her. Gawd, she just wanted to feel him, to understand what it was about him that made her want all the control and none of it at the same time. Because it didn't make sense to her. How could you want both? How could you have both?

She sucked in an unsteady breath. You couldn't. You couldn't have both. You had to choose. Do you keep what you already have or do you chase what you know you want?

Rogue's eyes swam as water began to fill them. She didn't want to choose. Joseph was a good man; he deserved to be desired. He wanted to be with her whether she could touch or not. If she didn't choose him, he would think it was because of his father. She didn't want him to suffer for Magneto's sins. It wasn't right. But, then, how could she choose someone she didn't…Not that Remy…It was just a coincidence. It wasn't fate. It didn't mean…_Oh, gawd…_

The back of her head hit the wall again with a resounding crack and she groaned. She could touch him…and heaven help her, she wanted to.

"Who died?"

The abruptness of Kitty's voice startled her and she opened her eyes in time to see her roommate phasing a large shopping bag through their door.

"Pardon?"

"I said, 'who died?' You look absolutely pitiful." She added, upturning the bag and pouring its contents onto her bed. "I couldn't decide which of these looked better. I need your grudging opinion." She grabbed a light blue sweater from the pile of cashmere and held it up. "Now, I know what you're thinking, I never wear blue, but I think I might be able to pull it off."

"It's great." Rogue's voice came in a murmur and she dropped her face into her hands. She did not want to unload everything on Kitty. She didn't. But she needed to tell someone and her best friend seemed like the logical choice.

"It is?" Having apparently completely missed the utter desolation in Rogue's voice, Kitty sprinted to their shared vanity and studied herself in the mirror. "Ugh!" She turned on her heel, a disgusted look on her pretty face. "I look like a zombie!" Wadding the sweater into a ball, she threw it back into the pile on her bed. "Are you even paying any attention to me?"

"Ah can touch."

The words were a hair's breadth above a whisper but it was enough to make Kitty's body freeze immediately. Rogue swallowed, her eyes sad, scared, as she looked into her friend's warm brown ones.

"Ah can touch." She spoke with a sudden burst of confidence; her volume at a more audible level. "Hank called me into the med-lab this morning to tell me," she explained as a silent and stunned Katherine Pryde sank onto the foot of her bed. "He and the professor think that they might have a way to isolate the part of my brain that controls my powers." Twin tears squeezed from the corner of each eye and Rogue felt her lip tremble. "Ah'm scared, Kit. Ah haven't been able to touch anyone for years. What if Ah forgot how?" What if he doesn't want me to?

Kitty licked her lips before clearing her throat. "How did they…figure this out?"

Her heart flipped in her chest before nose-diving for her stomach. "That's the worst part," she squeaked, more tears leaking from her eyes and cascading down her cheeks. "Oh, Kit, it's Remy."

She realized that it wasn't a very complete answer to Kitty's question and watched as her friend's brow creased in confusion.

"Uh—I'm not sure I'm following you." Kitty blinked, shaking her head. "What's Remy? What does he have to do with you being able to touch?"

_Everything_.

"The professor and Hank—they think Ah can touch him. Because of his powers. Whenever he's near me, his powers surround him like a bubble. They think that would stop me from being able to get to him…to his psyche…and that they'd allow me to touch him. And let him touch me." She shook her head, swallowing the anxiety that she felt. When Kitty didn't say anything for a moment, she let out a strangled breath and winced, "What are you thinking?"

The younger woman seemed to be struggling to understand the situation. "So, what you're saying is that you can touch Remy Lebeau? Out of all the men in all the world, the one man you can touch and can touch you is Gambit?" There was a beat of silence and then a low chuckle escaped the brunette. "Wow, he really is the ultimate ladies' man, isn't he?"

Rogue failed to see the humor in the situation. "What's so funny?" She brushed her tears away, annoyed that her friend was laughing at the life-changing event.

Kitty continued to laugh. "It's just ironic, don't you see?" Her eyes sparkled as she leaned in conspiratorially. "You're always going on about how much you don't like him. Which, by the way, I think you're either full of shit or blind to your own desires, but whatever. I've been saying how perfect you seem to be for each other. And apparently, Mother Nature agrees with me." She smiled smugly before leaning back. "Ironic, see?"

"It doesn't mean anything." Rogue's voice was small, protesting the validity to her friend's words.

Kitty groaned. "It does, Rogue. I know you can see it. How can you think that this doesn't mean anything? Do you think that coincidences like this just happen? Do you think that there are no such things as soul mates? Tell me you don't feel it. Tell me you don't know, deep down, that there is a reason for this."

Rogue felt the new wave of tears but held firm. "Maybe the reason Ah can touch Remy is so the professor and Hank can finally find a way to help me control my powers. Maybe this is so Ah can be with Joe." Kitty rolled her eyes and stifled a screech; Rogue ignored her, continuing, "Maybe that's the reason. Maybe you want it to be more so that it can fit into your perfect romantic world. Maybe you need it to be that way. Maybe Ah'm fine with Joe. Maybe Ah'm happy with Joe."

Kitty shook her head, her teeth setting into her lower lip. She pushed off the bed, gathered her purchases back into their bag, and moved to the door. She glanced over her shoulder; "I wouldn't want to live my life on 'maybe.'" And she was gone.

X

She didn't want to live her life on maybe. Especially when that maybe was becoming little less than a blip on her emotional radar. Her mind, her body, her sanity screamed for her to look toward fate, to face the inevitable future…and it didn't have Joe in it. But her heart…her heart was so afraid. Yes, she wanted Remy. Yes, she liked Remy. Hell, she wasn't completely sure, but she doubted it would take little more than a wink from him and she'd be crossing the line into love. But her heart, despite the fact that it felt on fire whenever he was near, was a little more standoffish. It had been hurt so many times before—Cody, Bobby—that it seemed impossible to believe that a relationship with Remy wouldn't end in much the same way. _But Ah can touch him…Ah couldn't touch Cody or Bobby… _Despite that glaring difference, she knew that love depended on more than just touch…not that a few romps in the hay couldn't prove to be, at least, temporarily beneficial.

Her lips curled into a secret smile and she felt her cheeks redden at the thought of romping in the hay with Remy.

She walked down the corridor toward the men's dormitories, a strange set of butterflies mixing about her stomach. Kitty was right; a point that Rogue definitely wouldn't admit to the petite brunette. She could see fate intertwining itself within their lives. She knew that there was such a thing as soul mates and, more importantly, she was beginning to come round to the idea that she had found hers…whether he knew it or not.

She was almost to his door when it flew open suddenly. Something made her heart stop. She licked her lips, trying to tone down the Cheshire-cat grin that had plastered itself to her face. The door closed as quickly and a pair of long legs—bare and glistening—met her stare. She felt her heart break, felt the crushing grip with which fate squeezed it. And she couldn't breathe.

Betsy's purple hair was tousled and perspiration wetted the roots. Her olive cheeks were a pretty shade of pink and Rogue was sure she saw swirls of tiny purple bruises running down her neck and collarbone. A cool violet gaze mixed with a churning green one. One side of Betsy's mouth hitched into a sneer. "Good evening, Rogue." She sashayed toward the other woman, her hips twisting like she was a ball in a groove. "Are you here to see Remy?" The Brit's voice had a tinge of meanness to it and Rogue swallowed back her heart. "You'll have to give him a moment…he's a bit disheveled right now. You know how exhausting sex can be…oh, wait, you don't." The sneer hitched up a little higher and she pushed past.

Rogue stood there for a long time, staring at the sleek lines of wood in his door. Somewhere inside, she could feel tears forming, but she ignored them; she was too busy trying to put a mental band-aid on her heart.

Maybe she needed to rethink this whole thing. If this failed, she'd have him memories in her mind. She didn't think she could stand seeing all the people he'd…been intimate with. Especially not Elisabeth Braddock. She felt a wave of nausea rip through her stomach and she contemplated emptying it in front of his doorway. That'd be a nice little present in the morning. No, she bit her lip, willing the chunks to stay down; he didn't know how she felt. He wasn't a mind reader. He was 'an energy-wielding mutant with some empathic abilities,' at least, that was according to Hank. He didn't know that she wanted more than anything to be Betsy right now, to feel his skin over hers, to feel his perspiration on her lips…he didn't know.

And she sure as hell wasn't going to tell him.

Not now, anyway.

He was obviously in love with Betsy. Though for the life of her, she couldn't see why. Sure, the girl was beautiful. Sure, her legs went on for miles. But, damn, she was a bitch. How Remy could stand to be in the same room with her, let alone…the same bed, was beyond her scope of imagination.

Of course, stomping someone's foot wasn't exactly fore-play, she groaned inwardly.

Well, whether he wanted her like that or not, she did at least owe him a thank you. He was willing to let the professor and Hank use him as a guinea pig so that they could figure out how exactly her powers worked. He was willing to take the risk that she could drain him. That had to count for something, didn't it? Swallowing, she rapped gently on his door.

From inside the room, she heard a husky, "S' open."

Her stomach twisted, the butterflies must have grown to bird size because they swirled about her guts with a strange new ferocity. She contemplated running for her life, but for some reason, her feet were glued to the floor. She tried to pick them up, to make them move, but it was no use. She was frozen.

"Come on in!"

This time his voice was louder. It made her heart scoot into her ears. She felt her lower lip tremble, but still she couldn't move her feet.

She heard shifting within and an irked voice ground out, "Oh, for…" along with a few chosen French expletives. "What de hell do you want?" And the door flew open.

Her breath caught.

Brown bangs fell into two wide red and black eyes. A light speckling of a beard dusted under his nose and across his chin, successfully framing a pair of soft lips. She watched them obediently, like a dog awaiting orders from its master. A heartbeat later and those perfect lips were moving.

"R-Rogue. D-Di'n't know it was you."

Her eyes dipped at that and she traced a path down his torso before resting, rather indecently, on his boxers. She thought of the morning she had pulled his covers from him and wondered what she would do now if given the same opportunity. He stiffened under her scrutiny.

"Sorry," and he moved back inside his room, he left the door open and she, ever obedient, followed him. "Di'n't expect company." He pulled on a t-shirt, effectively hiding the well-toned muscles of his body…and the tanned temptation that was his skin. She bit her lip; she wanted to touch him so badly she was beginning to ache.

His room was a disaster area and she caught his embarrassment as he scanned it. "This place is a dump. Sorry." She caught the whispered apology and watched as he disrupted the pile of blankets on his bed. His eyes widened and his nose scrunched. A second later and she knew why. She could smell him on the sheets. She could smell him and—it made her heart twist—Betsy. So, the bitch had told the truth. Small miracles still happen. She bit her lip, uncomfortable with the actual evidence that was placed in front of her. He had been with someone else. He could touch her, but he had been with someone else. It felt like a betrayal, though she had no idea why.

She was standing in front of his desk, eyeing the bed and watching him at the same time. She had to say something, had to swallow the bile rising in her throat. He didn't know how she felt. He didn't know that she wanted to spread out on his bed and let him do to her what he had done to Betsy. He didn't know that she…

"Ah—Ah talked to the professor and Hank." Her voice sounded tinny to her ears.

He was unsuccessfully kicking a pile of clothes under his bed. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She pulled out his chair and sat down. "Just wanted to say 'thank you' in advance for…you know." Breaking my heart.

He nodded. "No problem. Dat's what…friends do." He smiled; it lacked its normal radiance. "What does…Joe…t'ink 'bout all dis?"

_Joe_. She hadn't even told him yet. She didn't know what to tell him, didn't want to tell him, didn't want it to be him. But Remy brought him up. So didn't that mean that he didn't want her? Was that right? He didn't want her? She felt the warm sting behind her eyes. He didn't want her. He didn't want her. Why didn't he want her?

Instead of crying, she shrugged. It really was an act of self-preservation that she had to fulfill. "Ah haven't told him yet. But we're supposed to go out to dinner again tonight. Ah guess Ah'll tell 'im then."

"He'll be excited."

She didn't really give a fuck.

"Yeah." She stood up and pushed the chair back into its place behind the desk. She couldn't even fake a decent smile. "Ah'm glad we're…" what the hell are we? "Friends now."

"_J'aussi._ (Me too.)" Was it her imagination or was his smile wound as tightly as her own?

She dipped her head and moved through the door. The corridor was wide and empty and she felt the tears coming before she could escape to the women's dormitories. They were hot against her skin—full of embarrassment and an unsatisfied yearning that filled her insides completely. Why had she fooled herself into thinking that there was something there? Why had she listened to Kitty? The answer pinched her heart: _because it's there. You know it's there_. The ghost of Kitty's words haunted her.

She lowered her head and turned the corner toward her room.

"Hey!" Joe's voice stopped her in her tracks.

Turning around, she saw the handsome young man jog toward her. His brow furrowed when he saw the tear tracks on her cheeks. "What's wrong?"

She contemplated telling him the truth. The whole truth. The truth about Remy. The truth about how she felt. The truth that even if she could touch him, she'd want him to be someone else. But instead, she looked into his blue eyes and decided she couldn't hurt him. What did it matter anyway? Remy didn't want her. She needed to give Joe a better chance. He deserved it. He deserved her. Too bad she didn't want him…

But, still, the lie slid out easily, like silver off her tongue. "There was a sad song on the radio. Ah just…started crying."

He chuckled, pulled her to him. "Oh, Rogue." He pushed her back as quickly; a light was shining in his eyes. "Are you ready for our date tonight?"

She smiled weakly. "Yeah."

"Well, go get changed and I'll meet you downstairs in forty-five minutes. I've got quite an evening planned for you." He kissed the top of her head. "See you soon."

She nodded; the feel of his lips through her hair was like a scarlet letter across her chest.

X

"How was your date with mini-Mags?" Kitty looked up as Rogue shrugged off her jacket and fell face first onto the former's pink comforter.

Rogue rolled her eyes. "Ah'm exhausted."

"That well, huh?" She scooted over and inspected her friend's half-hidden face. "Did you tell your…Joseph…that you'll be sucking face with him before long?"

Rogue picked up her head and narrowed her eyes at the brunette. "What the hell, Kit? What do you want from me? Really?" She pushed off the bed and was soon standing in front of her friend. "Do you want me to just forget about him? Forget that he's a decent guy who's trying to atone for mistakes that he didn't even make? Do you want me to write him off? Pretend that Ah never met him? What do you want? Tell me."

Kitty's chin stuck out defiantly. "What about Remy?"

She threw her hands up. "What about him? Get over it. Remy and Ah don't exist. We're friends and that is all." She turned on her heel, the severity of her words cutting too deeply for her to let Kitty see. She walked to the balcony doors, placed a moist palm over the window and watched as her palm print disappeared, leaking away from the inside out, closing in on itself. Sort of like her heart.

The sound of Kitty's sigh caused her to look over her shoulder. "Did you even go and talk to him?"

"Yes."

Silence. Then, "What happened?"

"Ah ran into Betsy. She was coming out of his room."

"He doesn't love her."

Rogue whirled around, her green eyes gluing Kitty to her spot near the bed. "And how would you know? What? Are you psychic now, too?"

She didn't rise to the bait. "No."

"Don't go givin' me more of that fated shit either. If we were meant to be together, would he be fucking her every chance he got? Would Ah be goin' out on dates with someone Ah didn't…with Joe?" Her lip trembled and she couldn't hide the break in her voice. "Wouldn't he want me? Wouldn't he at least pretend to want me?"

"Maybe you shouldn't judge him with harsher guidelines than you do yourself." Kitty crossed her arms. "Or did you tell him that you like him?"

Rogue clenched her jaw. "Ah can't. Okay? Ah don't even know for sure. Maybe the only reason Ah'm considerin' it is because Ah can touch him. Maybe Ah really love Joe."

"Maybe you're scared shitless of being happy." Kitty shook her head. "Any more excuses?"

"No," she stomped toward the door, her eyes focusing angrily on her roommate for a split second, "Ah'm through." The door slammed behind her.

X

She rounded a corner, her cheeks blazing. _How dare she_! Rogue curled her hands into fists at her sides. _Who the hell does she think she is? She thinks she knows me! She thinks she knows what's best! Well, how can she? It's my life, dammit! Ah know what Ah want! Ah am a grown woman. Ah can make my own choices about who Ah want to be with and who Ah want to love!_ Her jaw clenched as she continued her private tirade. _Ah happen to like Joe. Very much. Actually. And, if Ah want to date him then…fine._ She turned another corner, the men's dormitories lay out before her; staggered doorways lined both walls. _Ah'm just gonna tell him what's been happening. Ah haven't been honest with him. He needs to know that Ah'm gonna be able to touch before long. Ah don't know why Ah didn't tell him on our date._

She stopped, her breathing irregular, and licked her lips. This wasn't what she wanted. She didn't want to tell him on some unspoken dare. She didn't want to let him know when she wasn't totally sure how she felt. Sure, she liked him. Sure, she enjoyed going on dates with him. But was it love? She shook her head, her heart suddenly heavy. She didn't know. He didn't set her on fire. He didn't make her knees weak. He was a good man, a nice man, but was he the man for her? She looked at her hands. The new black gloves felt itchy and warm on her skin. He was comfortable. Like a pair of her old gloves. Safe.

But she didn't want safe. Not really. Tears welled up in her eyes.

She kicked the closest door.

It opened.

Frayed jeans with worn out knees stared back at her. She rolled her eyes up and sucked in the gasp. A bare chest tanned and toned and glistening with a light perspiration, came next. A little farther up and she made out a strong, stubbled chin, a confused frown, a smooth nose, and two beautiful red eyes. The mop of brown hair falling carelessly around his face was just an added bonus. He stared at her for a long time, no doubt allowing her a chance to pull her jaw off the floor.

When he spoke, it was low, husky, concerned. "You been crying, _chére_?"

She wiped at her cheeks, the moistness left water shadows on her gloves. "Ah'm okay." Her voice wavered; she didn't even believe it.

His jaw twitched, but he leaned against the doorframe, his fingers shoved into back pockets, and spoke in a quiet, non-accusing way, "How was your date?" His jaw twitched again.

A shrug. "It was fine. Ah didn't tell him," she blurted, before pressing her fingers over her lips and staring at him with wide, embarrassed eyes. "Sorry."

He was staring at her again. Dark eyes weighed, analyzed, stripped her as he quietly assessed her words and her body language, breaking her apart and piecing her back together in a way that she was sure no other could. She swallowed under the heaviness of his gaze. It was like being naked, she thought, completely and utterly naked; it was terrifying.

"'S okay," he said at last, leaning back into his room and snagging a t-shirt from the floor. "Maybe it's best to wait until we know for sure."

She wondered if he knew the double meaning his words held for her. "Yeah, 'bout that."

He looked at her, his fingers rolling the t-shirt down over his abs. "You okay? Or scared?"

"A little bit. Can Ah…Can Ah talk to you about it?"

He nodded, his shoulder leaning against the doorframe once more.

She sucked in a breath, shook her head. "Can we talk…in there?" She pointed past him into his room.

He looked into his room then back to her. His eyes were glowing. She felt a shiver of excitement and fear roll down her spine. He blinked, dousing the embers of his eyes, before shoving off the wall and moving into his room. She glanced at his hands still stuffed in the back pockets of his jeans; he was clenching the material in tight fists.

She followed him into the room. He moved to stand on the other side of the bed, leaving her in the space near the door.

"So what's wrong?" He asked, his eyes staring at some invisible spot on the bed.

She licked her lips. Then, she did something she couldn't believe.

She shut the door.

It clicked shut and his head jerked up, fixing her in that intense gaze once more.

She moved around the bed, stopping at its foot with the desk to her back. Exactly where she had stood earlier that evening. He was watching her as she moved and she knew that there was an extra twist in her hips. She couldn't help it. She licked at her lips again, catching his eye as she did so.

"Do you…Do you have any idea what could happen if this doesn't work?"

They were pulsating—his eyes—turning from bright to dim and back again. She felt her throat close off, felt the loss of air, felt wonderfully lightheaded. Shaking it off, she asked him in a quieter voice. "Do you?"

"I'll be fine."

"What if Ah'm not?"

He looked at her again. "I won't let anyt'in' happen t' you."

Her heart was pounding away in her chest; she felt like she was yelling to be heard over it. "You don't have a choice. When Ah touch somebody, Remy, Ah'm like a vampire. Ah suck away their life—their memories. Ah could know all your memories—your pain, your—" her eyes dipped ever so slightly to his bed still jumbled and tousled from earlier, "your pleasures." His eyes widened, their brightness intensifying. Electricity crackled through the room, resonating in the air, setting her on fire. A breath escaped her. "Ah don't—Ah don't want to steal your memories, Remy."

His hands were at his sides now, opening and closing in a rhythmic pattern as he continued to watch her. There was a tightness around him, a sense of urgent control and she wanted to cry out to make him stop. She felt so completely and utterly at his disposal, so broken and battered and all he had to do to save her was give in. Give in to the energy that was surrounding them, carrying them, pushing them together. She felt another gasp push past her lips.

"Who are you, Remy?" She was pleading now. "Are you an art dealer like Scott said? Or do you have demons like Hank said? Please…"

A low rumble sounded from Remy's chest and when he looked up, a humorless smirk had crossed his lips. "Scott would say dat. He don' like for t'ings not to fit. Likes everyt'in' whitewashed an' cheerful. Hank's closer to de truth."

"Ah don't want to judge your past…"

"Prob'ly better to judge me from de past, only way I'll get better." His hands were in balls at his sides; they looked almost purple. "But, I swear to you, Rogue. I ain't gon' hurt you."

The tips of her mouth turned down. "Promise?" Her voice broke.

He was in front of her in an instant, his breath warm on her face. Brown hair fell into his eyes and as she looked up at him, the tears slid down her face. His thumb grazed her cheek and she sucked in a breath at the feeling of his skin on hers. He stared into her eyes and she saw him swallow. He placed his palms against her jaw, his hands felt cool to her burning skin, and he wiped the rest of her tears away. "Promise."

She felt her lips tremble, felt her heart's acrobatic leap. Her voice was barely a whisper as she watched him through half-closed eyes. "Who are you, Remy?"

He stared down at her, his eyelids drooping lazily over those swirling eyes. The corners of his mouth tugged down at her question. His voice was a whisper above her fractured breathing when he answered: "I'm a criminal, Rogue. A T'ief."

And his lips crushed hers. She sighed into his mouth, her lips parting and her greedy tongue escaping. His hands dropped to her shoulders and he held her there, keeping the smallest distance between their bodies. At the feel of her tongue, his hands tightened around her arms, but he didn't give her what she wanted, what she craved. She could feel the control within his kisses. He was fighting her, fighting himself, and it made her hurt. The sob escaped her lips and his hands tightened again, this time he pulled her into him, his hands twisting up, tangling her hair as he pushed her into his kisses, his tongue drinking her in, filling her up, losing control within her mouth.

He nipped at her lips, but the distance between their tongues was killing her and she pushed into him once more, her hands entwining in his tousled brown locks. She wrapped her arms around his neck; she was on her tiptoes now, trying to close even the slimmest of gaps that separated them. He growled, his hands about her waist and he picked her up, slid her onto his desk and continued the kiss.

His lips left hers for a moment and she sighed. His name fell from her bruised lips. "Re-emy." It was quiet. Pure. And it made him freeze.

Suddenly his hands were hard again—strong. And he curled his fingers about her arms, pushing her away. She moved toward him again, but he held her back, angling his head so that he could not kiss her again. He looked at her through the corners of his eyes and she saw the war raging inside him. It was need against duty and he was dying on the field.

His chest was heaving as he sucked in desperate amounts of air. She felt her own breath falling short but she could not take her eyes from him. "Remy…"

He shook his head and increased the distance between them. "I'm a criminal, Rogue," he repeated. "A T'ief." His eyes shimmered.

She shook her head; tears leaked out of the edges. "No. No, Remy. You're not a thief." She was begging. She hated herself but she didn't want him to leave. Not ever.

His jaw twitched and he turned sad eyes on her. She nearly shattered. "I jus' stole dat kiss," his voice broke. He moved back, sidestepping a pile of dirty clothes without even glancing at it. His hand gripped at the doorknob, twisted it. "I'm a t'ief, Rogue. A no-good, lyin' t'ief." He looked at her, his gaze intensifying. "An' if I don' leave right now, I steal somet'in' else."

She watched him disappear out the door. Her voice was quiet, like a scolded child, "Is it stealing if Ah give it to you?" She collapsed on his bed…and cried.

* * *

Thanks to everyone who reviewed: Remy's Rose, theblondeone07, Morgaine of the Faeries, bluemoon-175, cooltangerine, Poisoned-Tattoo, Doesn't Matter, RayneXX, Lucia de'Medici, star-x, naemis, Spicy Sweet, PsYcHoThErApY17, IvyZoe, Coletterby, toomakeyoulaugh, Ludi, BizarreLemon, Burning Touch, musagirl15, A.M.bookwrm247, Chica De Los Ojos Cafe, ishandahalf, vinh.

And also thanks to those of you who added Broken Road as a favorite!

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I sure wish I could have seen inside Remy's head there at the end. What will happen now that they've crossed the line? Will Remy pretend that nothing happened? Will Rogue fall into Joe's hands? What're JP and Stormy going to have to say about this? How will Kitty react? And will Betsy ever get what's coming to her? The future is ripe with angst!!

Anamarie


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

_Hold me now I need to feel complete_

_Like I matter to the one I need_

Seether, The Gift

He was a fool. And that had been the most foolhardy thing he had done yet. He cursed himself and set his teeth into his bottom lip until the metallic-sweet tang of blood swept across his tongue. The hallway was empty; the other occupants still out enjoying the evening or visiting with the sandman. He rounded a corner and stopped. Swallowing, he leaned against the wall and took a deep breath. Carefully, gingerly—he lowered his mental shields and sent a long, golden tendril of empathy reaching toward his room. The emotion that curled back to him made him grit his teeth and shove his hands fiercely into his pockets—disappointment, frustration, but most importantly, sadness. And instinctively he knew that he had made her cry again.

But it wasn't a natural sadness, he told himself; she didn't know it, but her feelings weren't real. He closed his eyes and let his head thump against the wall. He hadn't meant to charm her. In fact, he'd fought against it, raged against it with every cell and fiber of his being, but once she'd shut his door, once he had crossed the room and felt the tips of her breasts brushing against his chest, he had lost that fight. He tried to hold back, to not devour her as hungrily as he craved, but he'd lost that control as well. Had she not said his name—had it not feathered from her lips in that sweet sigh—he wouldn't have been able to stop himself. He ground his hands deeper within his pockets. He would have—and, gawd, he still wanted to—he would have slid his palms under her pert little butt, dropped her atop his bed, and orchestrated a crash-landing right on top of her. He swallowed, opened his eyes. His resolve wavered as he craned his neck to look round the corner and down the hall. If only she hadn't said his name…

But she had. And he knew—as much as he loved the way her voice teased the phonetics of it—he knew it wasn't right. She belonged to someone else. It should have been Joe's name caressed by her sweet intonations. And that pissed him off all the more.

His fingers curled into fists inside his pockets and he pushed off the wall with more force than he felt. He had to get off this floor—get away from his room, away from the pulsating wave of sadness that pushed across him with the power of a tsunami. He had to get away from her—her body, her lips, and her soul—her beautiful soul. He had to push down the warmth that spread across his chest whenever she was near. He had to force the pounding to halt…to be dead again…like it had been after Belle. He had to…his life depended on it…his sanity depended on it…his heart…well, that was a different story.

He stepped into the elevator and pushed the Danger Room's floor number. Perhaps battling it out against some pathetic excuse for a megalomaniac would take his mind away from the heat currently pouring into his nether regions. He doubted it, but he certainly couldn't work it out the way he wanted, could he? Unless he called on Betsy…the name left a sour taste in his mouth. After all, a thirsty man shouldn't drink saltwater, should he?

The sublevel was brightly lit, the fluorescent bulbs pulsated and buzzed over him and he squinted under the glaring brightness as he stepped off the elevator. The heat was a throbbing ache now. It wrapped around his stomach, causing him to clench his muscles and grit his teeth against its out and out power. His jeans felt tight, suffocating, and he rolled his eyes back into his head as he gulped down deep breaths of air. He had never felt this way…so utterly powerless. He had always taken the initiative to carry out his desires…even when they weren't perhaps the best of routes. He had never stopped himself so completely before and he wondered at its meaning. Why, of all the times, why did he choose now to be noble?

He stalked away from the elevator; his body turned against him as his powers once again spread their golden fingers outward in search of her. It didn't make any sense. He wanted her. Gawd above, he wanted her. He wanted to feel her silkiness around him, wanted to feel her breath against his face. He wanted to spend the entire night staring into those eyes, wanted to make them roll back into her head as she moaned and rocked and pulled against him. He wanted to wrap her curls around his fingers and tell her how foolish it was to straighten them, to kiss them, smell them. He wanted to release her…mess up the prim and proper image she kept trying to push…because it wasn't really her…he knew it. She was rowdy, unruly, a spitfire; she was everything he wanted…and maybe more. But she wasn't his…she wasn't his…

He felt the anger hammering in his chest, felt the sexual frustration inking its way through his veins. He veered to the right, his steps falling heavily against the tile; he was losing his mind. His palms slammed against the gray door and he set his eyes on his destination. His body screamed for control, begged for a way to end the burning. He pressed his hands against the wall, squeezed his eyes shut, and then twisted the faucet.

Ice-cold water slammed down on his head, pasting his shirt and jeans into his skin. He stood there, water running down his back, puffing against the stream, trying to fill his lungs with the cool, crisp mist that surrounded him. He hid his face in his shoulder; the shiver that ran down his back almost hurt, he was so cold.

"Remy?"

_Merde_. His back muscles tightened violently.

The voice cleared its throat and said his name again.

This time Remy peered over his shoulder. Sitting across the room from him, a sock poised over a bare foot, was JP. His brow was raised in a quizzical expression and his mouth was screwed into a semi-permanent frown.

Sighing, Remy returned his face into his shoulder. "_Que_? (What?)"

"_Que faites-vous?_ (What are you doing?)"

"_Le fait de prendre une douche._ (Taking a shower.)"

"With your clothes on?"

The water was beginning to numb the fire within his stomach, but it was still not fully quenched. He wondered if it would ever be. Pushing from the wall, he slid a smirk across his face and threw it at his friend. "T'ought I'd do a little laundry too, s'all." He turned the water off and stepped toward the wall of towels.

"What's the matter," JP forced a chuckle, "Betsy leave you high and dry?"

It was only the barest of pauses. Invisible, really, hardly noticeable at all, and had JP been a lesser friend, he wouldn't have even caught the quick twitch in Remy's jaw or the way his shoulder muscled tensed. But, JP was not a lesser friend. He'd known Remy forever and by default could sometimes read him…sometimes. It just so happened this was one of those lucky times.

"Remy? What's going on?"

Remy, however, was not quite ready to give him the information. "_Non_, JP, she performed…earlier."

"Then why are you standing in frozen wet clothes?" The Canadian's brow furrowed and he set his blue eyes to stare directly into Remy's red ones.

And for a moment, Remy was almost sure he would tell him. He wanted to. He wanted to open his mouth and let the truth pour down like the water from the showerhead. He wanted to describe the way her lips felt on his, the way her body felt pressed against his own. He wanted to tell JP about her skin, how soft it felt under his fingertips and how he wanted nothing more than to make love to her right then and there. But he couldn't. He would never share too much information…not even to his brother. It was against everything he'd ever learned about self-preservation. But, then again, so was love…and heaven help him, he knew that was exactly what was happening.

So, instead, he slipped the mask of humor over his face and sidled up to his friend. "You're always goin' on 'bout how you want to see me naked. Dis is as close as your ever gonna get, _mon ami_." He slapped JP on the shoulder and moved back to the wall. His fingers curled around a towel and he flipped it out, burying his face into its fresh folds, hiding himself for a moment, allowing himself to crack for a much needed second before rubbing the rough fabric into his hair and flashing another quick smile.

He knew JP didn't buy it. He didn't buy it, but it derailed the conversation in lieu of bantering and he knew JP'd let him alone…for now. He flipped the towel over his shoulder and tilted his head to his friend. "_Adieu_."

JP sadly shook his head. "When you're ready, Remy, I'll listen."

He nodded and exited the room quickly. Had JP been a lesser friend, he wouldn't have caught the sudden intake of air or the downward tilt of Remy's mouth. But, unfortunately, JP wasn't a lesser friend, and he'd never know exactly how grateful Remy was for that fact.

X

She was still in his room.

He stood in his doorway staring down at her. She was curled into a ball, her face buried into his pillow and her fingers twisting around the lip of his sheet. Her face, stilled and quiet, continued to display the consequences of his actions. Through her makeup, he could see the pale lines of tear tracks down her cheeks and he swallowed against the sadness, pushing it back, preventing himself from kissing the prints into oblivion. Instead, he closed his eyes, steeling himself for what had to be done.

He wanted nothing more than to leave her like that. To climb into the bed beside her, pull her into him and fall asleep with her in his arms. But he couldn't. He would want more. He would want to kiss her, to caress her, to taste her. He would want to love her. And he couldn't…he couldn't trick her into doing something she didn't want. Heroes didn't do such things…but thieves did…and at that moment he wasn't so sure he was the former. He licked his lips and moved toward her.

"Rogue." His voice was melodious, a singsong tone that reminded him of his childhood. "Please, _p'tite_, you gotta get up."

She stirred. A soft moan escaped her lips and she buried herself into his pillow. He bit his lip and groaned against the effect her sounds had on him. He dropped his hand, his fingers barely sweeping against the silky softness of her flesh as he flickered his hand up and down her arm. "_Chére_—you gotta get up. _Sil vous plait_. You killin' me, _mon amour_." He dropped to his knees, his red and black eyes taking in her sleeping form in an almost penitent manner. "You sleepin', _chére_?" He brushed a silver curl away from her face; she winced in her sleep. "_Je me rappellerai vous juste comme vous êtes en ce moment pour toujours_. (I will remember you just as you are right now forever.)"

He sighed, licked his lips. "Hold on, Rogue." Sliding one arm under her shoulder blades and the other under her legs, he turned her into him. A whine escaped her lips and she shifted in his arms until her face was buried in his chest. She tucked her arms against her body and snuggled closer to him for warmth despite the dampness of his t-shirt. With her so close to him, he was on fire. "Ssshhh, _p'tite_," his voice was low, soothing as he gathered her from the bed. Cradling her in his arms, he peered down the hallway and moved with soft feet down the corridor toward the women's dormitories. He stopped in front of her door, briefly wondering whether or not her roommate would be in, before adjusting her weight into his chest and quickly twisting the knob.

Her door swung open. Kitty was inside, but she was sound asleep on her own bed. Remy breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't want Rogue to be chastised or quizzed about her inappropriate entrance. Quickly, quietly, he stooped beside her bed and rolled her away from him. Instantly he missed her heat and the whimper that escaped her lips told him that she felt the same. Swallowing, he dropped beside her once more and pressed a quick kiss into her hair. "Good night, Rogue."

And he left as quickly as he could before he could change his mind.

X

The room reminded her of hospitals—sterile, unwelcoming, and impersonal. Hank had tried to lesson the clinical feeling by covering the stark white walls with a warm, springtime yellow. It was the color of pale daffodils and made her think of warm Mississippi summers spent along the riverbank. She'd gathered handfuls of weed-flowers—the bright puffs of yellow dandelions, the filigreed white clover buds, and the tiny sprite-like flowers that exploded throughout the greens of the grass with bursts of purple. She'd twirled and pressed their stems this way and that, braiding them together in chains, perishable jewelry to be worn for a day and dismissed before the moon could reach the middle of the night sky.

She swallowed, found a seat against a wall, and surveyed the rest of the room. A counter cut across one corner. It was neatly equipped with containers of tongue depressors, cotton balls, and thermometer covers. The room was very much like that of a typical doctor's office, but the difference was that here, Hank was going to prepare her for a procedure that may or may not lead to evidence in how to control her powers. How she was going to control herself during the whole procedure was a different question entirely.

She had spent the better half of the night lying face down in Remy's tousled bedcovers. She had cried for what seemed like hours before, finally—all of her tears soaking his sheets—she had collapsed beneath the intensity of it all and had fallen asleep. When she awoke, she was in her own bed—her clothes cool and damp with a pleasant heat in her hair. How she'd gotten back to her room she didn't remember. Perhaps she had walked there while sleeping. Though, she couldn't recall any such situations where she had ever sleepwalked before.

She twiddled her thumbs. Anxiety welled up inside her and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Hank had better hurry up his blue butt or she'd clobber him for making her wait this long. Especially now. Especially when they were so close to a possible cure. Shaking her head, she willed herself not to expect too much. These were only theories. There was still a chance that the procedure wouldn't work. But she'd kissed Remy…and nothing had happened. Nothing at all. But, boy, had she wanted it to.

"Good morning, Rogue," Hank's cheery tone swept her away from her regrets. Dressed in a white lab coat, he smiled down at her as he stopped at the counter and grabbed a tongue depressor from its glass container. "Did you get plenty of rest?"

She managed a tight smile. "Sure did, Hank."

His smile was toothy and white and practically glowed from its frame of blue fur. "Wonderful. Say 'ahhh.'"

She did as he said and sighed as he trashed the stick in a nearby trashcan. "Are you sure about this whole thing, Hank? Do you really think this is the answer to my powers?"

He pulled a chair from across the room and sat down in front of her. "Are you having second thoughts?"

_Only about Remy. How am Ah gonna be able to look at him after last night?_ "No. Just worried 's all."

"There is absolutely nothing to worry about." He leaned back, lacing his fingers across his chest. "I've just spoken to Remy and he's ready to start the procedure as soon as you are. I've already got him hooked up so we can monitor his vitals—not that it will matter, mind you, but we just have to be prepared for the worst case scenario at all times."

"He's already hooked up?"

"Well, of course." Hank gave her a funny look. "That was the plan as of yesterday, right? To start A.S.A.P.?"

A weak smile. "Yeah, 'course." Blowing her bangs away from her face, she forced her smile to strengthen. "So, Doc? Any last pearls of wisdom?"

"You can't move while the machine is taking pictures; it'll disturb the image if you do. And we want the image to be as clear as possible so that I can properly map the area of your brain that controls your powers. Also, try not to be too active with your thinking. I don't want too many of your lobes lighting up due to daydreaming. Remember, we're trying to focus on the part that will control your powers. Remy will be laying down—we wanted to make sure that if your powers do start to overtake him, he won't fall—and he will be holding onto your ankle while your inside the machine. Let's see," extracting a pair of spectacles from the pocket of his coat, he put them on his face, "oh, yes! Remy wanted me to tell you something."

She felt her heart leap within her chest and slam against her larynx. "W-what?" she croaked.

"He said to tell you not to be afraid, and that he promises not to hurt you." A twinkle sparked in Hank's eyes. "Then he requested that you wear a skirt." A good-natured chuckle escaped the doctor's lips as he watched Rogue turn pink. "That's our Remy…always one step short of a lawsuit."

X

The MRI machine loomed before her, its presence almost completely occupying the small room. The front of the machine reminded her of a huge metal donut. The circular sides were easily a foot thick, if not more, and she winced at the idea of being immersed into the structure. A metal, retractable bed stretched out in front of the opening. Crossing in front of the bed's foot, like the top of a T, was a hospital bed from the infirmary.

She caught her breath.

Two red eyes stared back at her.

_I'm a t'ief, Rogue. A no-good, lyin' t'ief._

"'Mornin'."

And she blinked. He was still staring at her, his face calm—so calm, in fact, that she knew he must have practiced it. There was no way he could have such unaffected feelings about what had transpired, unless…unless he really was what he claimed to be. But, then why would he have stopped? "'Mornin'," she parroted, her voice creaking against the silence.

One side of his mouth reached upward and he favored her with a lopsided grin. "Di'n't Hank give you my message?"

She glanced down. "You don't like my sweatpants?"

He chuckled. "Ouí, dere very sexy. 'M so glad you decided not to wear a skirt."

She felt her cheeks grow warm, but this time a tiny tickle of anger throbbed at the back of her head. How could he lie there and flirt with her as if nothing happened? As if he hadn't left her? Hadn't rejected her? How dare he?

"Like you really care anyway." It bit off harder than she meant, but the shift in his eyes made her feel better. At least, she thought it did.

His grin disappeared and his eyes went hard. "Hank," he called to the doctor behind her, "we gon' get dis over wit'?"

"Uh…yes…just waiting on the Professor and Scott." The poor doctor's countenance had changed drastically in the few moments since their arrival. His eyes were worried, and he seemed to be analyzing the exchange with the eye of a practiced scientist. By the looks of it, he was coming up short.

Clearing his throat, he decided to go over the schematics of their experiment. "As you can see, Rogue," his eyes briefly drifted between the younger mutants, "Remy is hooked up to two machines. The one with pads attached to his torso is monitoring his heart and pulse points. This way if your power does kick in, we can see the physical effects that it has on a person's heart. I deduce that heart rate will increase; however, I'm curious to know by how much." He moved past her to stand directly beside Remy. "Here," he brushed the young man's bangs away from his forehead, "we've attached similar monitoring nodes to his forehead. These are hooked to a brain monitor. I want to know how the brain, as well as the body, reacts to your powers." He licked his lips. "Not only do we have to consider how your power works within you, we must also look into how it works in those you absorb. Otherwise, we're only painting half a picture." He offered a tight smile, "And I don't know about either of you, but I'd rather have a whole Mona Lisa then half of one."

"Oh, I don' know, Hank," Remy's voice sizzled through the air, his eyes boring into Rogue's. She winced at the near-sneer on his lips. "Guess dat depends on which half you talkin' 'bout."

"Oh, good, you're all ready." Xavier wheeled himself into the room; Scott followed behind. The former glanced about the room, his eyes resting for too many seconds on Hank's before he offered a smile to Rogue. "Well, we'll need you to lie down on the bed so we can hook you up to the proper monitoring machines. Like Remy, we need to monitor your vitals. I don't expect any problems, but one can never be too careful."

"Agreed," Hank piped up and directed Rogue to her bed.

Scott stood beside Remy. "You okay?"

Red and black eyes flickered up, momentarily distracted from the female figure moving to the bed beside him. "Peachy."

"I ran into JP a second ago…"

Remy's jaw twitched in irritation. "I'm fine." A flash of red punctuated the last word. He was done with the conversation and Scott knew it.

"Good."

Xavier cleared his throat. "We're ready to begin the procedure. Remy, as soon as Rogue is in the machine, we'll put you in position. When the lights dim, wrap your hand around her ankle. We'll be monitoring both of you for your vitals. If you start to feel like you are being pulled out of yourself, let go. I do not want any casualties from this. The scan should only take seconds to complete and any pictures that we are able to ink out of this will provide viable information. Do not try to hold on and be a hero."

"Not a problem," came the muffled reply. "Never been very good at that job anyway."

X

"I don't know, professor," Hank stared at the image of Rogue's brain. His fingers, almost claw-like in their appearance, tapped against his chin. "There seems to be an awful lot of activity in this area." He circled a small section with a pen. "But, then again, it is in the parietal lobe."

"And what does that mean?" Scott questioned from where he was leaning against the wall. "You certainly don't sound encouraged."

Hank turned to look at his old friend and teammate. "Well, actually, Scott, I'm not. The parietal lobe should be showing some form of stimulation in this particular area. I wouldn't expect otherwise given the nature of our little experiment."

Scott's eyebrow breached the top of his ruby-quartz sunglasses. "Meaning?"

"The parietal lobe is where our sense of touch is located. I expected a section of that to be illuminated no matter what other findings should come about. After all, Remy was touching her…she felt the pressure of his fingers against her skin…even if he wasn't touching her skin, that section of her brain should have been highlighted simply because of the pressure from his touch." He sighed and removed the spectacles from his nose. Rubbing them on the tail of his lab coat, he shook his head, "Perhaps we were too hasty, professor."

Xavier pursed his lips together. "What about this section, Hank?" He tapped on the image in front of them. "What area do you think is controlled here?"

Hank squinted and slipped his glasses back on. "Oh…uh…"

"Well, out with it, Hank," Scott encouraged, pushing off the wall and moving to his friend. "What does that little thing do?"

"That is the hypothalamus."

"What does it control?"

"Well…several things really. There's no way to know for sure why that was being illuminated at the time…"

Scott's mouth twisted into a downward frown. "Well, what do you think is the reason?"

Clearing his throat, Hank shifted on his feet. "Well, I can't be sure…but given the…based on certain observations…if I had to guess…"

"Spit it out, man!"

"It controls the sex glands."

Scott blinked.

"And therefore, in a round-about way, sexual attraction."

He blinked again.

"I think Rogue's attracted to Remy."

And again.

"And by the looks of the readouts regarding not only his brainwaves, but also his heart rate, at the time of touch, I'd say, Remy's attracted to her as well."

"…"

"But, that's only my theory."

X

"You okay?"

She looked up from her perch on one of the chairs in Hank's office. Remy was standing in the doorway, one shoulder leaning against the frame. His hands were tucked into the front pockets of his jeans and his hair was hanging down, obstructing her view of his face.

"Yeah, Ah guess." She sighed, leaned back in the chair. "You?"

"Fine." He moved away from the door and into the room, keeping his distance from her. "Heard anything yet?"

Shaking her head, she looked at her hands. They were covered in white gloves. She hated them. "No." Her throat constricted as a sudden wave of sadness swam over her. "Ah…Ah didn't hurt you, did Ah?"

He looked up at her, his hair falling on either side of his face, exposing those eyes. They glimmered; she caught her breath. "No. You don' gotta be afraid dat you'll hurt me. I didn't hurt you, did I?"

_Yes_. "No. No, you didn't."

He regarded her for a moment. He seemed to be weighing the truth of her answer. He did that a lot, she realized, studied her…analyzed her…picked her apart. He seemed to be constantly digging into her, trying to see what was inside her head, her heart. She wondered why he looked at her with such intensity. It wasn't like he wanted her; he'd made that plenty clear the night before. Only…

_…if I don' leave right now, I steal somet'in' else…_

She swallowed and returned his gaze.

"If you get control, den what?"

She blinked at the question. "What?"

"If you get control, den what're ya gonna do?"

"Ah don't understand…what do you mean?"

He took a step closer, then stopped. He stepped back and leaned against the wall. "Are you gonna run out an' kiss ev'ry guy you meet? You gon' marry dat boyfriend of yours? What're ya gon' do?"

"Ah don't know. Ah've never really thought about it, Ah guess."

He nodded, understanding her, understanding the previous helplessness of her situation. "Now you can. So, what's it gon' be? What's de first t'ing you gon' do once you can control your powers?"

_Kiss you again_. "Put on shorts and a tank top and go shopping."

"_Pourquoi?_ (Why?)"

"Ah haven't been able to dress comfortably in years, let alone go some place dressed that way. There was always too much of a chance for skin-to-skin contact, too much of a chance that Ah'd steal someone's memories. You know what Ah would love?"

He shook his head.

"Ah'd love to go swimming with people. Ah always have to wait until it's really late so that there's no one in the pool and Ah don't have to worry about touching them. Ah could wear a bikini and play chicken and dunk someone under the water and it wouldn't matter. Ah'd be just another regular girl." She looked at her hands again. "An' Ah wouldn't have to wear these things anymore." She held her hands up for him to see. "Do you know how uncomfortable gloves are in the summer?" She managed a sad smile.

He licked his lips. "No 'ffense, Rogue, but you'll never be just another regular girl."

Huffing, she narrowed her eyes at him. "An' why not? Why can't Ah be just another regular girl?"

_'Cause you're too nice…too beautiful…too perfect… _"I didn't mean it badly."

"Oh, really? An' just how did you mean it?"

The door swung open and Scott peered into the room. He was breathing heavily and he placed his hand over his heart as he tried to catch his breath. "Sorry…I need the two of you to suit up and meet me in the Blackbird in under ten minutes. There's been a major eruption of violence in downtown Westchester. We've got to get down their ASAP. The Professor tried to reach you, but he said there was too much emotional static, or something. Let's go, people!"

X

The Friends of Humanity, a pro-human organization, had just declared war on all mutants. At least that was what Scott had told them on the way into Westchester. The ride had taken less than ten minutes, the Blackbird being one of the fastest jets in the known, and not-so-known world. Four groups were being sent out to try and curb the violence, rescue any victims, and get information. Cyclops and Storm were on the north side of the city. Joseph and Psylocke had taken the south. Wolverine and Shadowcat were on the west. That left them with the east.

Rogue pushed her back into the brick wall of a Building and Loan and closed her eyes as another round of gunfire broke through the air. A bullet ricocheted off the bricks and embedded into the dirt a few yards away. She crushed against the building, her chest rising and falling ferociously. That had been too close. Brick and concrete exploded near her head. She jumped, squinting against the powdered rock raining down on her. She hated hiding, cowering away from the fight. This was not what an X-Man was supposed to do, she scolded herself, an X-Man fought the good fight. Screwing up her courage, she gulped a big breath of air and leaned past the building's corner. She was jerked back. Another dusting of pulverized brick. She was panting; Gambit was yelling at her.

"What de _fuck_ was dat?! You lookin' t' get yourself killed?" His eyes flashed dangerously as he covered her body with his own, pressing her against the building. "_L'un, deux, trios_… (One, two, three…)," he pushed his face past the edge and assessed the situation. Pulling back, he buried his face in her hair against the resulting cloud.

He stepped back, "Can't be babysittin' ya all de time, _p'tite_. Try an' keep your head down." He winked, and then jumped past the safety of their cover; a playing card sailed from his fingertips.

_A sawed-off shotgun against an ace of spades?_ Rogue shook her head; poor guy didn't stand a chance.

He scrambled to their hidey-hole pushing Rogue back into the brick; his body covering hers, he tucked her head beneath his chin and braced himself. The explosion shook the ground. Against her, Rogue felt the building sway and she buried her face into Gambit's chest.

He smelled like tobacco, sweat, and soap. She closed her eyes as she breathed him in; Joseph didn't smell like that. And for a moment, she didn't want to be a regular girl…because if she was, she wouldn't be in his arms fighting for the cause…and there was no where else she'd rather be than with Gambit at that very moment.

His arms tightened around her and she raised her head. His eyes were glowing. She swallowed, wondered if he felt the same way. "You okay?" He brushed a stray hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. His touch was light; it gave her goose bumps.

She nodded.

"Di'n't hurt ya none, did I? Di'n't bang your head into de wall or nuthin'?"

She shook her head.

"_Bon._" He stopped, listening... He shoved her behind him, cards splayed in his free hand, before pushing pass the corner and hurling them toward his target. Another round of gunfire and this time, he fell before it.

She screamed. It reverberated off the cement and brick and came at her from all directions. A sick feeling sunk in her stomach when he hit the ground. She shot forward, her heart rattling her ribcage. He stopped her with one glance.

He was looking at her through the corner of his eye. "Sshh," his lips barely moved, "back up, Roguey, comp'ny's comin'." It was so quiet it was a wonder she heard it. He scowled, pulling himself up from the ground and staggering as he tried to regain his footing. He pushed his hand against the blood pooling out from his shoulder, teeth grinding against the pain. Eyes narrowed and he cursed, then laced his fingers behind his head. He snuck a peak in her direction and she saw the fear in his eyes. Not that he was caught, but that she'd be next. _Easy, _chére, he seemed to plead, _don't wan' nuthin' t' happen t' you._

She sucked in her breath at the next voice.

"That's right. Be a good little freak and I'll kill you quick." It was acid down her spine.

The sound of a hammer being pulled back assaulted her ears.

She slapped her hands over her mouth to hide the sob.

Gambit's eyes darted to her for an instance. She wondered if he could hear her heart beating through her chest.

"What's wrong, gene-joke? Thinking about runnin'? You're not so big and bad when you can't use your powers, are you?"

Gambit shrugged, a lopsided grin spread easily across his face. "'Bout as confident as you are wit'out your gun, I reckon." He took a step back.

The harsh laughter caused her to shake. Another glance from Gambit.

"Why don't you come here, mutie? Can't believe you're scared of a little human."

He snorted. "I ain't scared of you, _homme_. I'm just not too keen on dat huge fuckin' canon you carryin' 'round wit' you."

He continued to back away from the voice, his eyes flickering to her every few seconds. Another step and she noticed the gunman's shadow spill past the brick line. She pressed her back into the building, eyes locking with one of Gambit's fleeting glances. His smile widened when she peeled the glove from her hand.

"What's so funny, freak?" The voice was menacing, taunting.

"'Sides dat face of yours? Nuthin' much."

A shot rang out.

She about peed her pants.

"Next time, that'll be your ass."

Gambit's eyes narrowed. "Jus' not de face…boy's gotta make a livin'."

The gun's barrel breached her vision. Pieces of brick and concrete crunched under the gunman's weight. She quieted her breathing, fearful that the slightest noise would alert him to her presence. As it stood, he just thought Gambit was planning to run. Sick bastard was probably hoping for it just so he had an excuse to shoot him in the back. She frowned. People were so screwed up.

"So, tell me, _monsieur_," Gambit chatted, hands stilled locked behind his head, "why you hate mutants?"

"You're unnatural. A plague on society!" Once again the sound of the hammer being pulled back caused Rogue's stomach to twist. She stared at Gambit; he was smiling.

"True," he stepped back again.

The man followed, his entire gun hand was exposed clear up to his elbow. She grabbed for it, her palm clamping around his wrist, fingers straining against his attempt to get away. The gun went off, the bullets emptying into the ground in front of Gambit's feet. She held on, willing her power to take effect.

Gambit was beside her, pushing the man to the ground and planting his knee into the back of his neck. He gripped her elbow. "'s okay, _p'tite_," he whispered, "you can let go now. Let go."

She gasped as he pried her fingers from the man's wrist. She doubled her fist and smashed it into his cheek, the man's memories taking over her own. "You freak!" she screamed, pummeling his chest, "You fuckin' mutie freak!"

He grabbed her wrists then pulled her into his arms, restraining her between them. "Sshh, _p'tite_. 'S okay. 'S okay, Roguey. I got ya. I got ya."

She shook, tears pooling around her lashes, as she buried her face into his chest. "Remy, oh gawd, Remy! It's awful! Simply awful! We've gotta talk to the professor!"

* * *

Sorry it took so long to update. Just a note: "Jus' not de face…boy's gotta make a livin'." I've heard variations of this saying in several different places, but I have NO idea where it originated. My husband always says something like this, so I really took it more from him than anywhere else...but I do think it's in other places...just not sure where...if I knew, I would say...

I want to thank everyone who reviewed: naemis, V. TheRandom, Chemical Ferret, Like Pluto No Longer A Planet, Lily in Blue, xMaireadx, secondrate, KillingBellaDonna, Devilish Pryefly, theblondeone07, WildCardRose, cooltangerine, PsYcHoThErApY17, heather, Jedi Ditz, Coletterby, Burning Touch, vinh, 4Rogue, mela, TaraFish, Mercedes Watson, ishandahalf, Loyalx2xNone, BizarreLemon, notskinnygirl, PomegranateQueen, Dona Orabelle, xenokattz, Alecto's Muse, Mercy P. Jones, LysistrataBane, IvyZoe, Remy's Rose, RayneXX, musagirl15, Chica De Los Ojos Cafe, and Lucia de'Medici.

Thanks for all of your wonderful reviews! Keep them coming!

I also want to thank everyone who added Broken Road as a favorite. I'm glad you're enjoying the story!!

Well, it looks like the experiment didn't exactly work. Or did it? Maybe Hank can work out the bugs and figure out that little conundrum of a power poor Rogue's got. Keep your fingers crossed...If she can touch then maybe things aren't hopeless for her and Joe. ;) What is Storm and JP gonna say when they hear about this experiment? JP's already got his attention piqued, I doubt he'll let it go very long without letting Storm in...and she's been out in the field with Scott. Which brings me to another burning question: what is the FOH up to? What did Rogue see in that bigot's head? And what will this mean for the X-Men? I don't know about you all, but I want some answers!!

Happy Holidays!

Anamarie


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

_For you I'd bleed myself dry._

Coldplay, Yellow

The city was silent. Scott, complete in full-blown Cyclops persona, stared out the cockpit. Beyond the larger buildings, smoke billowed into the air, slightly crooked from the bitter breeze that had miraculously followed a sudden rain. The north side compared to a cemetery in his mind, a drastic change to the violent protests that had filled the streets roughly an hour before. He glanced to his right, Storm's fingers flew across the controls; her face—usually calm—was a mask of unreadable emotions. Watching her, he swallowed back a feeling of _déjà vu_.

She turned to him, eyes wide, frightened. "What did we get into?"

His jaw tensed. "A hate war."

Her hands stilled over the controls and she nodded. "I-I've managed to make contact with Psylocke and Joseph. They're moving in from the south. Betsy said it was like a war-zone down there. The 'Friends' were attempting a shake down from the sounds of it. Trying to wheedle out the freaks from the normals."

"Any injuries?"

She drew in an unsteady breath. "They're both fine," she paused, licking her lips and glancing away from him for a second before facing him once more. "Unfortunately, they weren't able to end the battle without a few casualties. Two of the FOH were killed."

His head dropped against the smooth metal of the control panel. "Damn it. Now they'll try and turn it into some sort of twisted martyrdom." When she didn't reply, he glanced up. "Any word from our other teams?"

"Wolverine and Shadowcat are heading back this way as well. The west side, dare I say it, is worse for wear. Neither one was injured, but Logan gave some of the 'Friends' a 'coming to Jesus' experience that Kitty said they wouldn't forget any time soon. Which will, of course, flare their hatred even more."

"I don't doubt it." He rubbed at the back of his neck. "What about Gambit and Rogue?"

She stiffened and he saw that her eyes had turned gray. "No word." Her voice was one crack short of breaking.

He sucked in a breath. "They're fine. They are."

She licked her lips and he saw the uncertainty well up in her eyes. "He's my brother. I have to look for him."

Scott shook his head. "Give him ten minutes, 'Ro."

"He could be dead in ten minutes."

"Please, like Remy could sit still long enough for that to happen."

X

She shuddered against him and he winced. She was pressed against his hip, her back facing him and he held her there with strength that he didn't realize he had. His left hand gripped her shoulder; his right held the curve of her hip. The proximity was too close—he could smell her hair, feel the shape of her against him. Unfortunately, the closeness was causing his blood to hammer in his ears and, likewise, out the hole in his shoulder.

He bit down on his lip. He hadn't had a chance to check it, to see what kind of damage the bullet had done. He figured it had passed straight through because he could feel coolness, like the cold January air was rushing through it. In a way, he was grateful for it, it helped to take away the searing heat that had been burning through his muscle. He knew that the heat was beginning to grow, to course into other areas of his body, and that it was only a matter of time before his body gave way to shock. He didn't have time for that right now, he reasoned, and pushed her forward. They had to get back to the Blackbird. To Xavier. She had to tell them what she had seen in that crazy man's mind.

"R-Remy?" Her voice was an underwater whimper and he had trouble understanding her. It was as if she was fighting a current, trying not to be pulled down—drowned—in the man's memories. Twice, she had been taken back. Twice, she had attacked him with hate in her eyes that made his stomach curdle. Twice, he had gathered her in his arms and whispered to her, trying to drop the rescue rope within her reach. He tightened his grip on her now, the strange muffled voice having been the precursor to her last two blowouts.

"'M here."

"Ah'm scared, Remy."

He continued his pace, pushing her along with him. "I know, _p'tite_." God help him, he was scared too. If he didn't get them back to the Blackbird in time, he could go into shock or she could lose her mind again. The day was not shaping up as well as he had hoped. "C'mon, Miss'ippi, we're almost dere."

She stiffened.

"Aw, shit."

X

The world swirled about her, upending her perceptions, sending them skittering to land on their backsides. Suddenly, up was down and down was sideways. Nothing made sense; nothing made nonsense. She braced herself—her mind, her soul—with a quick wince and a rigid back. She wished she could just learn to go floppy; it would undoubtedly be less taxing on her body. When she opened her eyes, the world had changed. Instead of one full of promise, she saw only hopelessness…and the end of an era. The Era of Humans.

Mutants were taking over. They lurked in every dark shadow. They hid behind every corner. Each one waited to pounce—to destroy the human race in a landslide of sideshow science. Freaks. They were little more than a strand of DNA gone bad. They were unnatural. Mother Nature's bad joke. And she'd be damned if she was going to let them extinguish her and hers from the earth without a fight.

Suddenly she realized that hands were on her. _Wait a minute_, her brain screamed, swelling against the conflicting information, _just a moment ago I was standing over that mutant_. _The one with the red eyes. How did I get here?_ She rolled her neck, feeling the bones pop and the tendons stretch. She could take him. He was, after all, nothing more than mutagenic slop; she'd just have to make sure to wash her hands when she was done.

With a jerk, she was free of his grip. It wasn't very impressive at all. She thought these mutants were supposed to be superhuman. He was weak. Like a baby. Whirling to face him, she felt the bile in her stomach rise. It was the same damned one!

His eyes—animals had more soul. They were glittering red set against a black pool—devil eyes! His face seemed ashen, thin…like he was struggling to remain upright. She felt her lips curl into a wicked smile. _That's right_, she remembered. _I shot him_. Her own eyes dropped to his shoulder. Blood pumped steadily from the wound, drenching his trench coat with its crimson stain.

"You freak." She bit off the words, her eyes burning with hatred. Hatred for the abomination standing before her. Hatred for the loss of her world. Hatred for something that didn't make sense because it couldn't. Evolution was for suckers. "I hate you and your kind."

Something in his eyes shifted. It made her pause, if only for a second. It was an emotion. A real, human, identifying emotion…sadness. Then her insides raged against it. _Trickery_! Her mind screamed. _Mutants have no emotion. They have no soul!_ And she stuffed the anger into her heart. It poured through her veins, flowing through every inch of her body, fueling her strength with red-hot hatred. And she lunged for him. Her fingers easily found the hole in his shoulder and tore at it.

From his throat came an incomprehensible yell. And he banged his free arm across her elbows, successfully ripping her talons from his injury. He stumbled backward, his body crashing into the building behind him. Again she saw his eyes; again she became inflamed with the mock humanity reflected in them.

She leapt for him; her fingers had become the claws of a bird of prey. This time, he wrapped his arms about her, pinning hers to her sides. She screamed, profanities pealed from her lips and she twisted against his weakened grip. He leaned over her, tipping his weight from the building, before steering her into the wall. He pushed against her, used the wall to help imprison her between his arms.

Her temper flared again. Without the use of her arms, she dug her chin into his shoulder. The smell of blood stung her eyes; the metallic aroma rolled about her tongue. He yelled; his face shrank in on itself as he tried to hold her there despite the pain. She pushed harder, deeper. And tears dripped from his eyes.

"Damn it!" He swore and kicked her feet apart, shoving his knee between them. Then he rammed his chest toward the building.

She felt her head hit.

His strength was rapidly depleting.

She grinned.

One arm twisted away from her body and yanked at her hair. Her chin dislodged and she watched as the pain shook his features. Her free hand grabbed for his shoulder. He rammed her into the wall again, picking her up slightly with his knee as it rode up under her rear. He gritted his teeth, his eyes locking with hers.

He pushed his face forward, capturing her lips with his own, pressing into her. She pancaked against the wall. Her back shivered against the damp bricks; her chest burned against his chest. She fought, her free hand curling into his chest, pressing fingertips into the dark Kevlar body armor.

Her world was shifting again. This time, everything was in feelings. Her nerves were on fire—tingling, shivering. She felt her lips part, felt her tongue flitter against his. And she became floppy, melting into him, falling into his chest, mixing with him. Her hand was to his face and she could feel the roughness of his stubbled cheeks coupled with the smoothness of his skin. Her other hand was released and it wound its way into his hair, but she couldn't feel the brown waves—her glove was still on.

He shuddered, weakened. And she opened her eyes. He dropped his knee; she felt cement underfoot once more. He was leaning over her, his forehead scraping against the brick of the building. He winced, groaned, slipped sideways from her until his shoulder rested against the building as well. He twisted, put his back against the brick and let his head bang into it.

She shook her head, trying to free it of something foreign.

He watched her from under lidded eyes with nothing but darkness and a spark of red breaking through them. His breathing was shaky and she looked at him with concern.

"Remy? Are you okay?" Something wasn't right. Something felt off. But she didn't know what. Didn't realize what had happened.

He managed a half-smirk that was followed by a groan as he tilted his head back into the building. "Sure thing, Miss'ippi." His eyes rolled back and she watched as he swooned.

She grabbed him, pressed her body against him, pushing him into the building. "Oh, yeah, you're great! What the hell happened?"

His eyes cracked open and he dropped his face to her head. "Magnolias," he smiled.

She looked up at him. His face was so close to hers. His lips were so close…

The air around them picked up. Dust powdered up from the ground. She buried herself into his chest. He fought to stay upright.

"Rogue!" She heard her name. When she looked up at Remy, he was squinting toward the distance.

She glanced over her shoulder.

Three figures were moving toward them. One led the other two. His face was panicked as he closed in on them.

"Joe," it was little more than a whisper. She felt Remy stiffen beneath her.

Joseph's hair blew about his face, skimming the tops of his shoulders. It occurred to her that he looked like some sort of champion from the days of the early Olympics. He was searching her face, his brow cinched above his nose.

"We've been trying to locate you! Why didn't you call in? We had to start the homing device on your communicator!" He stopped, his eyes narrowing as he realized just how close Remy was to Rogue. "What's going on?"

She stepped away from him, her hand pressing into his chest to make sure he was balanced against the wall. When she turned toward Joseph, she saw his jaw twitch.

He rushed her, his hands flying to her shoulders, holding her back so he could look at her. "What happened? Oh, gawd, there's so much blood!" He was shaking as he turned his icy stare to Remy. "What the fuck did you do to her?! You're supposed to protect her!" He pushed her away, his anger fully locked on the man leaning against the wall.

Remy flipped him the bird. "Fuck you."

And that was it. Joseph attacked. He rammed his fist into Remy's stomach and then followed up with an uppercut to his mouth. Remy fell to the ground. Rogue screamed. Ororo grabbed for Joe's shoulder, but he shook her off, circled his opponent, and taunted him to get up.

Blood poured from his lip; Remy wiped at it with the back of his hand. His breathing was shallow, unsteady, but he offered the other man a sardonic smirk. "Dat de best you can do, _baiseur_ (fucker)?"

Joseph's eyes flashed and he moved toward him again. This time a hand clamped down on the back of his neck and three metal spikes shot in front of him. "That ain't Rogue's blood."

Trembling, Rogue stared dumbly down at the blood covering her clothes. Some of it was still warm. Some of it had dried to a dirty brown. But all of it was Remy's.

X

Scott met them at the top of the Blackbird's ramp. His eyes flashed behind his visor and he gritted his teeth before shoving himself in between Ororo and Remy. "Let's get him to the back."

Ororo protested against Scott's body. "I've got him, Scott. I can—"

He turned toward his face grim, his tone clipped. "No, Storm. I need you to man the controls. Wolverine and I will take care of him in the back."

"But, Cyclops—" A flush was rising in her cheeks at the same speed her voice was gaining an octave.

"That's an order." And he pulled Remy's arm over his shoulders.

Ororo set her jaw, her hands curling into fists at her sides, before stomping toward the front of the jet.

Joseph and a silent Rogue followed closely behind. Joe helped her into a seat, his hand pulled at her mussed curls.

"Joseph! Get up to the controls with Storm! Call in the injury to Hank. Patch him through to us back here!"

He stood, letting his fingers pull on an auburn curl. It bounced back. "I'll be back." His voice was a low hum in her ears.

Kitty slid into the seat beside her. "Oh my gawd." It came out in a breath. She swallowed, craned her neck to catch a glimpse of what was happening in the back of the Blackbird.

X

Betsy's hand found her mouth and she stifled a cry. Scott glanced at her and tilted his head toward a large cabinet with a cross on it. "Betsy, get some clean cloths. We don't know what we're dealing with. As soon as Logan can get Gambit's body armor off, we'll need to apply pressure. Stop the bleeding." She nodded and rushed to the locker.

"Logan, can you get this piece of shit body armor off him?"

Logan nodded and helped Scott lay the younger man down on a gurney. Then, extending one of his claws, he slipped it under the bottom and pulled up. The Kevlar hissed like Velcro as the adamantium split through it. Carefully, he rolled Remy onto his good shoulder and slid his other arm from the sleeve.

"Oh, bloody hell!" Betsy pressed her fist against her nose.

Scott pushed toward them, an IV in hand. "C'mon, Joe! Where's that patch?! We need Hank ASAP!" He grabbed Remy's shoulder, examined it with a wrinkled brow. "Betsy! It looks like the bullet passed through. Pack the back of his shoulder with gauze, and apply pressure to the front. Stop that bleeding!"

Logan pressed his finger against Remy's neck. "I ain't no doctor, but this kid's barely got a pulse. Where the hell is Hank?"

"Right here, my furry Canadian." The monitor above the first aid locker fuzzed and crackled. "Oh my stars and garters! Keep pressure on his shoulder. Scott, he needs that IV hooked up now. Logan, you'll find an oxygen mask and small tank in that locker over there. I want him hooked up. I'll be waiting at the landing pad."

X

She sat in one of the leather-bound seats, staring at her hands. One was gloveless, the other, fully covered. Blood, tacky and lukewarm, painted her fingertips down to the first knuckle. The spaces under her nails were filled with blood and bits of flesh and she fought back the urge to vomit. What had happened? These didn't look like the hands of someone helping. These looked like the hands of a murderer.

She continued to stare down at them, only partially aware that Kitty, sitting silently beside her, was washing the smeared blood from her face. The roughness of the washcloth did little to calm her. There was so much blood. Blood on her hands, down her front, covering her back…How had she not known?

And then she noticed it.

She noticed the way her peripheral vision was moving—like a snake across the still waters of a pond. Tiny ripples rocked back and forth, catching the light, glimmering and shimmering, and fading away. She felt the tide, the pool of an underwater current, grappling for her ankles, pulling her toward the deepness—the blackness—away from the quiet sparkling waters of the shallows. She felt the hands reaching for her, felt their gnarled fingers pressing into her flesh, and she screamed.

X

Kitty jumped up from her perch beside Rogue and pressed her hands into the girl's shoulders, shaking her. "Wake up, Rogue!"

The tension around the Blackbird climbed. Now two of their teammates were in need of help. Ororo jerked in the captain's seat and threw an uncharacteristically panicked look over her shoulder. Joseph, at her right, jumped from his seat and ran to Rogue.

"What's happening?! What do we do?" His eyes searched Kitty's.

"Strap her in!" Came an order from the back of the jet. "Don't let her out of the restraints until we've landed!" Scott's voice wavered for just a moment. "Her glove was off. She must have touched someone!"

"But we've got to help her!" Joseph argued.

"She's not the one bleeding from a bullet wound!" Betsy's voice was low, serious. "She will be fine until we get to the mansion. Remy may not. Prioritize the victims."

Logan nodded at Kitty from his place beside the unconscious Remy. "C'mon, Half-pint, be quick. We don't know what she's got in that head of hers."

X

Deeper and deeper they pulled her. She watched as her vision, her perceptions, filled totally with the pushing and pulling of the current. Everything swam—the light, the dark—the colors bled into each other and swirled about like a whirlpool. And she was trapped, being sucked into the middle, dragged down into a reality she didn't relate to, didn't understand, because it wasn't her reality. But she knew it. Knew it existed, because…she had just been there.

She was standing behind the Building and Loan in downtown Westchester. Her back scraped against the brick, but she didn't notice. The only thing that interested her was the damned mutant on the other side of the building. She'd seen him go back there. He was tall, dark-headed, and wore some sort of tattered coat. _Bastard_. She thought there might be another one with him, but the action had been so rapid, so swift, that she had only spotted him for sure. _They're nothing but mangy dogs_, she assured herself, _they must travel in packs_.

She leaned across the brick line and pointed her gun at the mutant's corner of the building. "C'mon, you must be itchin' for a fight. Wanna kill ya some real humans, huh?" And she squeezed the trigger.

A cloud of pulverized brick and mortar exploded and she shrank back into her hiding place with a smile of glee on her face. She was going to get that fuckin' mutant and bring it in, just like Creed ordered. She wondered for a moment whether this one would be a victim of their monthly executions or if perhaps, if it was not wounded too badly, they could use it in one of their hunts.

Rogue cried out against the visions. Her stomach rolled under the insinuations of this madman's thoughts. The sight curled in on itself, new currents flowing and ebbing and swirling about her until she now squeezed her trigger and watched as the bullet made more of an impact.

Blood and flesh exploded out the back of the mutant's shoulder, the sound of metal burying into flesh delighting her and sickening her at the same time. He fell to the ground, pain screwed up his face for a millisecond before he looked up at her again, his eyes glowing red. And she felt her heart quicken. Demons! That's what they were! Abominations! And she must scrub the earth of their existence. They all must!

Damn Creed! Damn him and his public executions and his private hunting exhibitions. This thing was a monster! And it deserved to be killed immediately! This thing had no soul, had no reason for being except to hurt people—women, children! She wasn't about to let it live even if it was only for a week or two more. She'd kill this thing herself; it'd be like crushing an insect under the heel of her boot. After all, mutants weren't humans.

The vision shifted again. And she felt the vomit rising in her throat. She fought against it. But the scene changed and she opened her mouth to cry out.

Remy was pressed up against her, covering her from the onslaught of dust that exploded near their heads. She looked up at him, his eyes were glowing, shimmering…beautiful. She felt…wonderful. His body was warm against hers; his breath against her skin was like silk. "You okay?" His touch was gentle as he pushed a stray hair behind her ear. When she nodded, he continued, "Di'n't hurt ya none, did I? Di'n't bang your head into de wall or nuthin'?"

_No_, she shook her head.

"_Bon_." And he pushed her behind him before leaping away from their cover. He hurled a brace of cards toward an invisible target and was answered with the exploding boom of gunfire.

She watched Remy's body jerk back against the impact. She saw the blood explode behind him. She watched as he hit the ground, gritting his teeth against the pain. She felt the scream curdle from the depths of her soul, her heart. She saw him look at her. And in an instant, she was quieted. His eyes were glowing. Just like when he kissed her. Just like when he brushed her hair behind her ear. Just like now…when he was trying to save her life, even if it cost him his own…

And despite the fear that ate away at her insides, she felt warm.

Then the currents pulled at her again, and she found herself waking in the med-lab.

X

"Hank how is he?" Ororo stood from her seat beside JP, dark circles of worry filled the spaces under her eyes.

Hank sighed and rubbed his hands together. "He's fine. He'll be fine."

JP dropped his head back, letting it smack the back of the sofa. "_Remerciez Dieu_. (Thank God)." He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes. "I'll kill him if he ever scares us like this again."

Ororo nodded. "Me too." Then, turning back to Hank, she licked her lips. "How bad was it? The extent of damage, I mean."

"That's the strange thing, 'Ro. It wasn't that bad at all. The bullet passed through the muscle—yes, so there is some muscle damage. But, with his enhanced metabolism, the shock shouldn't have set in so quickly. There shouldn't have been so much blood loss. I just don't understand it."

"Perhaps, I do."

The three turned to see Xavier enter the room. His wheelchair stopped in front of Hank. "I think Remy's energy was being used in other ways than to restore his body."

The doctor's brow knitted then quickly relaxed and he shook his head knowingly. "Ah. Yes. Of course." He allowed a brief glance at Ororo and JP before tilting his head at the Professor and exiting the room. "I'll go check on my patients. See if Rogue's awake yet and see how Remy's doing."

Ororo watched as Hank left the room, her curiosity piqued. "Professor?"

Xavier looked up at her. "Yes, Ororo?"

"What's going on? What do you mean that Remy's energy was being used in other ways?"

JP leaned forward on the couch, his neck craning to better hear Xavier's answer.

"I believe that would have to come from Remy himself."

"Nice try," Ororo leaned down, her gaze locking with his. "Getting information from Remy is like breaking into Fort Knox. What is going on?"

"Remy was helping with a little experiment, but I'm afraid now we will have to put that on hold. He needs all of his energy to focus on healing his body."

"Why wouldn't it?"

Xavier sighed. "Take a seat, Ororo." When she didn't budge, he repeated in a firmer voice. "Sit down, Ms. Munroe."

She acquiesced, sliding next to JP on the couch, her back a perfect ninety-degree angle from the cushions, her bottom barely on the edge.

"It seems that Remy has an interesting twist to his power. His powers, whenever they sense a certain type of energy, wrap around his body, creating a type of force field, if you will."

JP snorted. "That sounds like something out of a comic."

Xavier smiled. "Yes, well. We don't know all of the whys and why nots yet of this phenomenon, but we do know when it is activated."

"And that is?" Ororo leaned forward, nearly losing her balance.

"Whenever he is around Rogue."

"What?!" She fell off the couch.

JP's eyes bugged out and he opened and closed his mouth for a moment before words could be formed. "So…there…he…protects…him…?

"If what you're asking is along the lines of whether or not he can touch her, then yes, he can."

The two friends exchanged a worried glance. Xavier continued.

"Unfortunately, it seems that this force field needs quite a bit of energy to actually be maintained. When Remy was shot, his body made a choice: protect him from Rogue's powers or work on his wound. It was a serious injury. An average person's body would have responded the same as Remy's did: by going into shock. Normally, however, Remy's enhanced metabolism would have started repairing the injury. Not like Logan's healing factor, mind you, but still at a more rapid pace than the average homo sapien.

"But it appears that his body decided to protect him from Rogue, for whatever reason. It could be because of the attraction he feels toward her…"

"Whoa! Wait a minute! He's with Betsy." Ororo argued. "There is no attraction there. They're just partners. That's it."

JP raised an eyebrow at her, his face twisting with disbelief. "Oh, 'Ro, c'mon! You know it and I know it. And we've known it for a while now. You said so yourself that he smiled at her—he really smiled at her. He doesn't do that just because he's banging you. He has to really like you—care about you. We just didn't think…"

"It could go anywhere?" Xavier submitted, nodding his head. "Yes, well, he could have just felt some sort of responsibility toward Rogue to make sure she was alright. It may have absolutely nothing to do with sexual attraction."

Now he was the victim of disbelieving looks.

JP yawned, stretched back against the couch, and settled into its cushions. "I believe there's some wonderful ocean-front property for sale in Kansas. Perhaps you should look into it."

Ororo flicked him in the head. "What are we going to do, Professor? They can't be partners then."

Xavier frowned. "I'm afraid that I disagree. They need each other. Remy is the first person Rogue has been able to touch in years. She needs to be with someone she is not afraid to hurt."

"And so we let Remy hurt?! He could have died, Charles! His body was so busy protecting him from her that it didn't even do what it's supposed to do—work on his injuries. He could die from a paper cut!"

"That's a little extreme, Ororo. The reason his body didn't start working on his shoulder was because it didn't perceive it to be that bad of a threat. And perhaps, it was Remy himself who didn't perceive it that way. Perhaps, he prevented his body from repairing the damages because he was more concerned with Rogue than with himself. And she did absorb someone remember. Maybe he needed protection from her because he didn't know how she would react to the absorption process. He didn't know what she would be capable of under someone else's mind.

"I believe that they need to continue as partners as soon as Remy has recovered. Until then, he will need to be quarantined from her unless Hank or myself is there to monitor them. It may be that now his body would continue healing itself. I don't know. That is why we must keep an eye on this. We don't understand why or even how his powers are doing this. We need more data."

"So, now Remy's a guinea pig?"

Xavier sighed. "Ororo, he volunteered." Then, he rolled out of the room toward the med-lab.

JP pinched his nose. "If he is in love with her, he'll die for her and it won't matter what you say."

"I know that." And she buried her face in her friend's chest and cried.

X

Joseph was there.

She blinked; the fluorescent lights reflected off his silver hair giving him an ethereal glow, or at the very least, a halo. He was sitting in a rather uncomfortable looking chair, his elbow balanced precariously on the wooden arm, his chin in his hand. He was sleeping, she realized, as he drew in an unsteady breath and wobbled back and forth.

She shifted slightly in her bed and watched silently as Hank entered her room. When he saw her looking up at him, he smiled. "Good evening, Rogue," he whispered. Glancing at Joseph, he managed a small smile. "Seems you have a visitor."

Her eyes slid to Joseph. She licked her lips unsteadily. "Yeah."

Hank watched her for a moment, his blue eyes weighing her actions. "Are you okay?"

She looked down at her hands. Someone had taken the liberty to wash them. Remy's blood had all but been scrubbed down the sink. But she could still see it. Despite the whiteness of her skin, she could still see the blood. "Fine."

"Are you really okay?" he asked after a moment.

She shook her head. There had been so much blood. What if he…? If he… She'd die… "Ah don't know," she began, the tears welling in her eyes, "How's Remy?"

"Will that answer have a direct effect on your own?"

Her eyes held his for a moment, and then she sent a worried glance at Joseph. Licking her lips, she met his gaze again and gave one quick nod.

"He will be fine."

She wiped a hand across her face; the tears spilled over to her cheeks. "Oh, thank Gawd. Ah was so scared, Hank. It's my fault he's as bad as he is."

"Why would you say that?"

"Ah absorbed one of the FOH members. Ah was so hateful to him." More tears flowed down her cheeks and her voice grew thick with sadness. "Ah was so hateful."

Hank shook his head and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "No, Rogue. You weren't. It wasn't you."

"But Ah didn't control it! He had so much hatred, so much anger, inside of him. Ah couldn't get above it. It kept draggin' me down. And the things Ah saw! Oh, Hank. We're in so much shit. If we don't stop them—" her voice trailed off.

"Rogue?" Hank shook her, pulling her back from the hellish images in her brain.

She felt her lip tremble. "He wanted Remy. He was going to take him until he saw his eyes."

Joseph's elbow slipped from its place and he started. "What? Huh?" Looking from Hank to Rogue, he smiled. "Oh, hey. You're awake."

Rogue swiped at her cheeks, but Joseph had seen them. "Oh, honey. What's wrong?" He ran his fingers through her hair.

She licked her lips and forced a smile. "Nothin'. Ah'm just tired. An' Ah saw stuff." Her eyes caught Hank's.

The doctor nodded. "Don't worry. The professor will—"

"Rogue, what is it?" Xavier appeared in the doorway, his face calm, collected.

"—be here in a second."

Charles moved toward her, stopping beside Joseph's chair. "Tell us what you saw."

Her whole body was shaking now and she hated herself as the tears once again began streaming down her face. But how could she not be upset? How could anyone be so brainwashed into believing that the horrors in her mind were acceptable?

"The 'Friends'. They were trying to collect mutants. That was why they were there."

"Collect them?" The terror on Hank's face could not be hidden. "For what?"

In her mind's eye, she saw them. The mutants the 'Friends' had…procured…in the past. They lived in mass cages, were regularly beaten, and fed just enough to survive. If one could call it 'surviving.' After a few weeks in the cages, they were split into different groups. Some were shipped to regional leadership sites. There the mutants were taken into arenas and killed by the spectators in frightening displays of biblical façade. Stonings were quite common and were the favorite among the revelers.

If they weren't taken to the different regions, they were taken to the main FOH headquarters. There they were fitted with strange power-inhibiting collars and were released into a wooded area. This was the favorite sport of the higher-ups. Hunting mutants.

The color had drained from Xavier's face. And she knew that he had seen what was in her mind.

"Dear God."

Hank glanced at the Professor, his eyes wide with fear. "What is it?"

Xavier shook his head, his eyes locked with Rogue's. "I had no idea it had gotten like this."

"What is it?" Hank's voice raised an octave as he gripped the older man's shoulder, tugging at his jacket like a child who wanted to be part of the conversation. "Professor…"

"Murder."

And Hank's hand slipped off him.

Next to him, Joseph cursed.

"It's mass murder. They're executing mutants all over the country, and they're using some warped form of Christianity to do it. And they're hunting them…like animals…"

Rogue nodded. "He was gonna take Remy," she sobbed. "But when he saw his eyes, he decided to just kill him." She was shaking, the realization of what could have happened hitting her. "Ah absorbed him. Ah stopped him. But, then…Ah couldn't control it…the anger…the bigotry…and Ah kept going in and out." She buried her face in the pillow, sobs wracking her body. "If Ah'd had better control, we could've gotten back to the Blackbird before…"

Xavier wiped a hand over his face then placed it on her back. "If you hadn't absorbed that man, Remy would be dead. And probably you as well. Or worse. You'd be alive and in their custody. He's alive because of you."

She sniffed, turning her head to look into the professor's eyes. "Can Ah see him? Oh, gawd, professor. Ah have to see him."

Joseph stiffened; his jaw twitched.

Xavier exchanged a glance with Hank before shaking his head. "Not right now. Rogue, Remy's body needs to heal."

"Ah know that. Ah just wanna see him."

He pursed his lips together. "I know that. And you will. But right now, he needs to rest."

Her brow knitted together and she wiped at her tears with the back of her hand. "You're not telling me something."

"We don't know how his body will react to being around you. We know that it uses energy to create the force field that surrounds him whenever you are near. We also know that instead of attending to his injury, it focused its energy on protecting him from your power." Quickly, he added, "But that maybe because he didn't know what to expect from you after you absorbed that man."

"Wait a minute," Joseph's voice interrupted the back and forth. "What force field?" He looked at Rogue, waited for an explanation. "What is he talking about?"

She dropped her gaze and stared at her hands.

Joseph's blue eyes moved on to Hank. "What's going on?"

Hank cleared his throat, looked at Rogue. "Do you want me to tell him?" It was low, quiet, but it seemed to zap the air full of espionage.

She nodded, still staring at her hands.

Hank cleared his throat. "Whenever Remy is around Rogue, his body uses some of his natural excess of kinetic energy to create a force field that protects him from her."

"So what does that mean?" Joseph's voice was low, strained.

"Remy can touch me." She glanced up, catching his eyes, then dropped her own to her hands once more. "And Ah can touch him without my powers turning on."

His hands balled at his sides.

"We were experimenting to see if, through the wonderful world of electro-magnetic images, we could find from where Rogue's power manifests. We have, as of yet, been unsuccessful, but there has only been one experiment thus far. With Remy's body under such stress and since we know relatively nothing about how his powers will react until he is healed, we will have to wait until he is recovered to continue."

Xavier added, "Once he's a little better and we can properly monitor his powers, you can see him and everything will be fine."

"So how are you planning to control Rogue's power once you find where it comes from?"

Hank stroked his chin. "I believe that once we know the section of the brain that controls her powers, we will be able to treat her with drug-therapy. Sort of the way that a bi-polar person's emotional swings can be controlled with anti-depressants."

"But you said it didn't work the first time. Why?"

Xavier excused himself. "I will be in my office. I want to gather my thoughts before Scott and I start planning how to approach the information Rogue has supplied." He patted her shoulder. "I will speak with you later."

They watched as the professor rolled from the room.

Joseph asked again, "It didn't work the first time. Why?"

Hank shrugged. "Perhaps Remy's force field is too strong for Rogue's powers to even begin siphoning from. As I said, it was only the first experiment. There are several things that we need to critique and hone—"

"I'll do it."

Rogue's eyes widened and she twisted her head to stare at the handsome man at her bedside. "What?"

"I'll do it," Joseph repeated. "I don't have a force field so we know your powers will definitely grab onto me. You'll be able to get a more satisfactory reading," he added to Hank.

"Yes, but I don't think you understand the repercussions."

"She'll get my memories and I'll lose consciousness."

Rogue pulled herself to sit upright. "No," she shook her head at him, "it's more than that. Ah become you. Ah see everything you ever done. Everything that made you who you are. And you lose consciousness…and time…you lose a little bit of your life because you're knocked out cold."

He leaned down; his eyes leveled with hers, his nose almost grazing hers. "But if you're able to touch me for real because of that…my life will be complete."

Hank coughed and excused himself.

X

He liked to think of himself as a brave man. He was, after all, the 'leader' of the X-Men. He faced foes like Magneto, Sabretooth, Mystique…and other such megalomaniacs. He had seen too many people—good people—die. Jean. And in a way, himself. He hadn't been brave then, he considered. He'd been scared shitless. She had been brave. She had been the one to take destiny into her arms in order to save her friends. He loved her for this. He hated her for this. But, mostly, he hated himself for not coming up with a better plan. He was berating himself for the very same reason when Hank walked in.

The doctor's eyes were tired, stretched above darker circles in his already dark fur, but still he managed a smile. "Scott." He stopped next to him and looked at the sleeping figure occupying the bed in front of them. "He hasn't awakened yet?"

"No."

"Undoubtedly enjoying some delightfully sinful adventure."

Scott chuckled. "Wouldn't be Remy if he wasn't."

Hank nodded, leaned against Scott's chair. "Xavier will be looking for you."

"What could I have done differently, Hank? Why weren't we able to locate them sooner?"

"Scott," Hank sighed, finding a chair on the other side of the room and dragging it beside him, "sometimes things just happened. No one is to blame. No one could have foreseen it. I think this is one of those times."

"We couldn't reach them with the communicator. We couldn't even find them. Not until—"

"Not until you did?"

Scott nodded.

"The communicators could have been damaged. There could have been some kind of scrambler set up in their area. Maybe Remy's energy powers disrupted their circuitry for a time. Maybe they were low on batteries. I don't think this is your fault. Remy won't think this is your fault. Goodness! Everyone wants to take the blame. Where else would you find such a self-blaming group?!"

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. "What does Xavier need me for?"

Hank sighed. "We spoke with Rogue. She absorbed one of the 'Friends'. It seems that there was more to this little situation than a mere riot against mutants."

"How much more?"

"Well, that's the sick thing," Hank moved to the other side of Remy's bed and checked the IV. "It seems that this was something of a harvesting."

"A 'harvesting'?"

"Of mutants. It seems that the 'Friends' have much more antipathy toward our kind than we first thought. They were collecting mutants, Scott."

A red light flashed menacingly behind ruby quartz sunglasses. "For what?"

Hank recorded Remy's blood pressure on his chart, and then removed the armband. "Execution. Prey. What other horrors can you imagine? Because I am certain that is what those poor people are having to endure."

Scott was on his feet. "I'll be with Xavier. Let me know when Remy wakes up." His palm slammed into the door; Hank could hear his footsteps stalk down the hall.

He shook his head, fought the nausea that tickled the back of his throat. He clipped a small machine on Remy's finger and waited as a monitor read his friend's pulse. When the hand clamped around his wrist, he jumped. Searching his patient's face, he drew in a shaky breath.

Black slits. His eyes were nothing more than black slits. Red circles floated within; they were so dim he could barely make them out.

"Remy?" He spoke quietly, unsure whether or not his friend had actually resumed consciousness or if his body was merely reacting to his dreams.

A forced smile—or rather, a lift of the corners of his mouth in response. "_Bête_. (Beast.)" He winced, released his grasp on the doctor's wrist, and found his shoulder. He managed a strangled chuckle. "Fixed me up, I see."

"Yes, well, you were far worse off than you should have been."

"Story of m' life." His breathing was erratic, his words unusually soft.

"You should be fine though. Not that you're going to get out of some form of rehabilitation, mind you."

"Don' t'ink I'm de rehabilitatin' kind." He groaned, rubbed his hand across the bandages; his face seemed to crumple in on itself.

"Think again." Hank waved his hand away. "Thank God they could track Rogue's communicator—"

"How is Rogue?" His eyes were wide now.

Hank shook his head, chewed his bottom lip. "Of course," he muttered to himself. "She's fine, Remy."

"D' she tell de professor? Does he know she absorbed dat asshole?"

"Yes."

"What did she see?"

"She didn't tell you?"

"_Non_. 't scared her, though. Scared de hell outta her." He looked around the room. "Where is she?"

"She's resting in another room."

"But she's okay?"

Hank nodded.

"_Remerciez Dieu_ (Thank God)." He let his head drop against his pillow. "Don' know what I'd do if…" he stopped, suddenly aware of Hank's presence.

The Beast's smile was tight. "It's okay, Remy. Patient-Doctor privileges."

* * *

Thanks to all of those that reviewed the last chapter: Gentle Dream, Ludi, Encuentrame, Wiccamage, Captain Annie, Le Diable Blanc, notskinnygirl, xenokattz, Doesn't Matter, Coletterby, Spicy Sweet, mela, toomakeyoulaugh, Burning Touch, Mercedes Watson, naemis, Remy's Rose, Lucia de' Medici, cooltangerine, willa.j, vinh, ishandahalf, BizarreLemon, V.TheRandom, Leash, Mercy P. Jones, KillingBellaDonna, Chica De Los Ojos Cafe, and musagirl15. 

Also, thanks to those who put Broken Road down as a favorite!

**Oh, goodness! Well, let's see. Here's hoping Remy decks Joe in the next chapter! So, Remy's convenient ability that allows him to touch Rogue can also be not so convenient. Is Xavier right? Did he focus on the force field because he didn't know what to expect since Rogue imprinted that FOH member? Or is this just an unfortunate little rough spot in his powers? Will Joe help Rogue control her powers? And if he does, what will Remy do when he finds out about it? How will the X-Men take down the FOH? And more importantly, how will that plan effect Remy and Rogue? Man! Where's that next chapter when you need it?**

I hope you're enjoying the story! Please review!

Anamarie


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

_And suddenly I become a part of your past  
I'm becoming the part that don't last_

The Fray, Over My Head (cable car)

Ororo sat quietly on her white couch, a cup of tea held delicately in her fingers. She licked her lips, her eyes unseeing, focused intently on the wall in front of her. It had been four weeks. Four long, trying weeks since that fight with the Friends of Humanity in downtown Westchester. Four weeks since Remy had been shot. Four weeks since she'd known that he could touch Rogue.

She realized it must have seemed strange, her behavior toward the news. But she was afraid. Truth be told, even more now. They both had been through so much…so many dysfunctional relationships…so many self-deprecating scenarios. And the truth was…touch had always been at the heart of it.

So when the Professor told her that Remy and Rogue could touch…it was as if the only safety net remaining had been cut.

She didn't begrudge Remy his affections toward Rogue. In fact, under any other circumstances she would have delighted in the romantic irony of their situation. They were clearly made for each other. Like God himself had carved Rogue from Remy's rib. But at the same time, she was frightened for them.

Touch, or the absence of it, had hindered Rogue's sexual maturity. She was young anyway, but never more so, than when it came to the fine-tuned languages of lust and love. She had been imprisoned from touch, had guarded herself against it, taking up a responsibility that no living thing should have to face. The barest of human necessity…and she couldn't allow it…to do so could be nothing short of murder. And it had cost her. Her relationships with Cody and Bobby had ended with her heart broken and her powers even more hated than before. An invisible line was drawn, one that she could never cross, and she hid herself away…her heart away…focusing on her work, her career, her fate as an X-Man. She became a stranger to touch, shying away from it even though she was perfectly protected by a cover of clothing.

And now suddenly, here was this man…and not just any man, Ororo conceded, _Remy_…who could touch her.

Where touch had become a wish for Rogue, it was as natural as breathing for Remy. He made it into something fanatically different than anything else on earth. Where Rogue's control neurotically depended on her guarded, clipped movements, Remy's was loose, fluid…quicksilver. He dipped his fingers through the tresses of ladies he passed on the street, skimmed his knee across the backs of thighs. His touch was seductive, deliberate. Even when he wasn't in tongues, his body language was easy and his hands quick. He wasn't afraid to touch. No, he loved it, hoarded it, delighted in it, reveled in it…possessed it.

He was, after all, Remy Lebeau. Smooth and tall. Milk chocolate melting on the tongue.

He knew touch. How to do it. When to do it. Why to do it. It was at his command. Even when he wasn't using his power, his touch sparked, ignited, burned. Hell, he could touch you without laying a finger on you. He _was_ touch.

And therein lay the problem. Ororo rubbed at her eyes, freeing them from the signs of sleep collecting in their corners. Belladonna had brought that need, that desire for touch even further out. After Remy had found her, in the arms of another man, he had taken to touch with a vengeance. He had become obsessed with it. When Rogue couldn't be touched, there was a chance at him forming a normal relationship—a friendship. But, now… Ororo sighed, yawned, and stretched out across the couch, her head resting on its arm. She hadn't thought it was possible for him to fall in love…without touch…but then, she corrected herself silently, had he ever truly fallen in love with it?

The tables had certainly turned on the southern spitfires. He had finally found someone he might love, truly, deeply…but her touch, even though he was immune, could still prove deadly, and his obsessive need for her touch would possess him. And she had no force field, no protection from his skin, from his touch. And she needed it; Ororo thought sadly, wiping at her eyes, otherwise he would possess her…

X

It had been four weeks since the incident. She hadn't been to see him once. How could she? How could she let herself be in the same room as him? What if her mere presence disrupted his whole healing process? She could kill him.

She asked Hank about him everyday. Sometimes twice. Sometimes three times. He offered to let her visit. Said that he could monitor Remy's powers, make sure he wasn't focusing too much energy on maintaining his shields; make sure he was still allowing himself to heal. But she refused. She didn't want to take the chance. Didn't want to hurt him anymore than she already had. Didn't want to be responsible for more than she already was.

Besides, the professor needed her. Needed to pick through her memories—or rather those that she had imprinted. Everyday they tried to understand the jumble of prejudice that seemed ingrained in his every facet of thought. Though the information they had deciphered gave them plenty of insight into the machinations of the Friends of Humanity, it offered very little else. They needed names, locations…something…anything. Without that kind of information, they'd never be able to stop the genocide of the mutant population. It would continue, under their noses, below their feet.

The presence of 'Ted' in her mind was unbearable. At night, he raped her dreams with hideous visions of murder masquerading as atonements for the human race. In his mind, the world belonged to homo sapiens; the homo superiors could go to hell. And every dream ended the same. He would be standing over Remy, his gun cocked and lowered and aiming for his heart. And every night, she screamed, cried, raged against his feelings, his view of the world. She swam through the bigotry, grasped at its frayed edges and tried to pull herself out of his body. Tried to get to Remy. To stop the bullet already within its chamber. And then she'd wake up—sweating, panting, and trying desperately to escape.

Tonight was no exception.

She collapsed on her bed, surrounded by the darkness and the sounds of Kitty's steady breathing. She allowed herself to cry, to let the cascade of tears slip from between her eyelids and slick down the sides of her cheeks. Her hand found her heartbeat and she dug at it, fingertips winding into the fabric of her t-shirt. It hurt. Her heart hurt so badly. Like it was breaking. Everyday the pain increased. And every night she fought more ferociously, more intensely to save him.

She kicked the covers from her legs and set her feet on the floor. One glance at Kitty told her a heavy metal band could play a full set in their room and the petite brunette wouldn't be the wiser. Pulling a bathrobe around her shoulders, Rogue slipped from the room and down the hall. She felt a tug on her heart as she passed the elevators. Her eyes welled and she stood there in front of the metal doors, her hand knotting the terrycloth over her heart. But her stubbornness won out and she inched away, casting a sad look over her shoulder at the doors, tall and unmoving, sentinels protecting him from her.

She padded down the stairs and felt a tear squeeze from her eyes. A brush of the back of her hand, and she raised her head and pushed her shoulders back. She moved toward the kitchen, a mantra for courage running through her head: She was strong. She was doing the right thing. She was…fucked.

Joseph was sitting at the table, a bowl of cereal in front of him. He looked up when she entered, his eyes widening, his pupils dilating. An easy smile split his face and he jumped from his chair, bringing the bowl with him.

"Hey."

She licked her lips, watched sadly as his eyes widened even more. "Hey yourself." She turned her back to him, opening the refrigerator. "Anything good in here?"

He was behind her, his breath warm and even on her ear. "Leftovers." And he reached past her, his fingertips grazing down the arm of her robe, sending little shivers across her skin and down her backbone. She could feel his eyes on her cheek, felt the closeness like a bullet. She licked her lips again and cursed herself for it.

He pulled a cardboard box from the top shelf and held it in front of her. "Feel like Chinese?"

She swallowed, guardedly turned to face him, her chin tucked down to her chest. She looked up at him from under her lashes and swallowed again. "What kind?"

He licked his lips and smiled. "I think pot stickers and rice. Here, get a plate." He set the box on the island and produced a spoon from a drawer. She handed him the plate and he scooped the box's insides onto the ceramic surface. "Yeah, just as I thought. You want me to heat it up for you?" He moved to the microwave an expectant look on his face. She nodded and he smiled.

"You know," he began, pushing the keypad on the microwave's front, "I meant what I said. I want to help you control your powers."

She shook her head, already tired from the conversation before it started. "Joe, Ah just don't—"

"I'm not afraid." He moved toward her, his chest skimming the front of her robe, so very near her skin. His voice lowered and she looked up to see how his eyelids drooped across the silvery-blue of his irises. "You won't hurt me. And, I'd never let anything happen to you." He raised his hand, his fingertips catching a loose lock of hair and pushing it—oh, so slowly—behind her ear. He held on to the tips and tilted her chin up, her curls his protection.

She felt her lip trembling. Felt the strange mixture of excitement and fear that hummed beneath her skin whenever she was touched. But amid those feelings, another rose inside of her, cooling her insides with the sharpness of a knife. Guilt. "But Remy—"

"Is in the med-lab for an undisclosed amount of time while he heals. Besides, I think I have a little more invested in this procedure." He smiled and brushed his lips so close to her own. She felt the whisper of skin, felt the pull of her powers. He was unsteady for a moment, swaying, with eyes closed, but recovered and the smile returned to his face. "I love you, Rogue. And I want to be able to touch you…for real…for more than a second. I know you're scared. But you won't hurt me. And who knows when Remy'll be ready for a procedure this experimental again? Hank said it didn't work the first time; it may never work. It will work with me. I don't have a force field. They'll find where your power stems from."

She had tears in her eyes. "But, Joe…"

"Besides," he gave a terrible chuckle, "Remy might not even want to continue. You probably scared him…the chicken shit."

And there it was. The very same thought that had kept her from telling Joe 'no.' Remy might not want to continue. He might not want anything to do with her…ever again. He might hate her. Hate her for her powers the way others hated her. He might never want to see her again. Might rather die than let his powers waste his energy on her. She swallowed, tears were in her eyes again, but she dropped her face, her fingers digging into the soft fabric above her heart.

He might hate her.

"Okay, Joe. If you're sure…"

And he pulled her into a hug.

X

Four weeks. That was how long it had been. Four short, agonizing weeks. And he couldn't even tell her. It was as if she had simply dropped off the face of the planet. And it was simple; he knew, after all, he'd done it himself plenty of times. But here he needed her. Needed to tell her. For once in his life, he was sure. Sure of his feelings. Sure of the power that she held over him. Sure of her kiss. _Oh, gawd, her kiss_.

Hank had restricted his activities. He was to lie in bed and work on getting better. To hell with that. He was not one to lay low…not for a whole freakin' month. But during some of that time, he hadn't been able to get out of bed. Hadn't been able to keep his normal overabundance of energy. During that time, he thought. He ran his mind across the battle, wondered if there had been anything else he could have done, whether he could have saved her precious soul from the FOH member's insanity. He thought about how he had kissed her; there didn't seem to be any way to get her back to reality and he had done the only thing he could control. The way her eyes had looked—all that hatred pumping through them in vivid green, had been too much, too painful, and he had needed to bring her back to him.

He remembered the breathlessness, the way her body felt against his. He played the forcefulness, the utter animal passion, in his mind over and over again. His stomach muscles clenched wonderfully as he imagined pushing her into the brick and covering her lips with his own hungry mouth. If he hadn't been wounded, he'd have wrapped her legs around him and made love to her right then and there, the rest of the world be damned.

But she hadn't come to see him.

Four weeks. And she hadn't come to see him.

He worried that perhaps the emotional strain of absorbing that man had been too much for her. He worried that perhaps her head on his chest hadn't been what he had wanted it to be. He worried that she hated him for being so weak, for not being able to protect her from the conflict. Or maybe she blamed him for her position, it was after all, his fault she had used her powers.

These worries had brought him to the gym, unbeknownst to Hank, and he was determined to work out the nervous energy coursing through his veins. He slammed his fist into the punching bag. It swept away from him and he threw his gloves on the floor. _To hell wit' dem_, he thought, slicing a left hook into the bag and reveling in the pain. _Gotta work t'rough dis! Focus on de pain._

A roundhouse kick hurtled the bag still farther away and upon its returning swing, he cut into it with another left hook. His knuckles popped from the contact, his shoulder burned, and he bit at his lip to keep from grunting. Again the bag sailed away and again it returned, a pendulum for his anxiety. With each return trip, he sent it away, crumpled, bloody, worse-for-wear but always to return…

But she hadn't come to see him…

X

"I don't know, Professor. There's just been so much lately." Scott pushed his fingers under the ruby quartz lenses of his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. He sighed and leaned back in the armchair across from the older man's desk. "How have your meetings with Rogue been going?"

Xavier shrugged, a helpless motion that Scott was not used to seeing his mentor perform. "Her mind is extremely jumbled. I have to wade through so many different memories—personalities. But just when I think it's hopeless, I come across 'Ted.'"

Scott's mouth dipped at the corners. "Ted? Who's Ted?"

"The 'Friend' that she had the pleasure of meeting. We've named him Ted." Xavier leaned back in his wheelchair, his fingers crossing over themselves in his lap. "We gave him a non-threatening name to try and move past all the negative things in his memories. I'm not sure that it's actually working for Rogue, but it was worth a try."

"Have you found anything? Anything of relevance? A starting place?"

"There is one thing that seems to wind itself in and out of Ted's memories." He tapped on his chin. "I have looked into it. It's plausible that it could be an FOH establishment."

Scott leaned forward expectantly. "What is it?"

Xavier slid open the hidden panel on his desk and pressed a few buttons. The monitor descended from the ceiling. "I had Kitty download some maps of the city for me and put them on a disk. You are looking at a bird's eye view of Westchester. She was good enough to highlight the areas of our battle in red. Do you notice how they are dotted about the city's cardinal directions?"

"Yeah…we knew that though. There were riots on the north, south, east, and west-sides."

The professor smiled. His fingers were at the keypad again. "Now, how Kitty found this, it's amazing. Thank God, she's on our side." The screen changed to show a warehouse, tall and gray against the February sky. "This is the place from Ted's memories. Exactly. See that faded sign there? You can't make out the lettering at all, but it's definitely a faded sort of red, wouldn't you say?"

"Pretty much everything is a faded sort of red for me, professor."

"Oh! Sorry. I was just so excited." He cleared his throat and began again. "This is the warehouse from Ted's mind. I'm certain of it." He was typing. "Now, look at the location of the warehouse on this map. Kitty highlighted it in blue."

The map was on the monitor again. Dead center in the circle of red was one big blue dot.

"I believe that Kitty used the same technology and reasoning followed by the police. Apparently criminals have a comfort zone that surrounds their homes or places of work; they don't like to step out of that circle. Kitty hypothesized that racial fanatics work roughly the same way. She cased the area within the circle, searching for places with the same basic description as the building in Ted's mind. As soon as I saw this photograph, I knew, this was the place."

"And because it's front and center, you think it might be their place of origin?"

"At least preceding the riots four weeks ago, yes."

"All right, then," Scott was rising from his chair when Xavier stopped him.

"What are you doing?"

He cast an incredulous look at the bald man across from him. "I was going to go check it out."

Xavier shook his head. "No. I don't think it would be wise to just go and knock. They don't know that we have any information regarding them. I'd like to keep it that way. If we send a team—even a small one—it will alert them to our knowledge. I think that we'll have to be a little more subtle."

"I'll go myself."

"No, Scott. I think we will need someone with slightly more stealth. Perhaps someone who's conditioned himself to the art."

"You can't be serious!" Scott's mouth twisted into a frown. "Remy's still healing. I don't think it's a good idea to put him into a dangerous situation so soon!"

Now Xavier frowned. "I'm afraid that he's going to need to feel like a contributing member of this team. And it is what he does best, after all. Besides," Xavier added sadly, "Joseph visited me earlier this morning. It seems that Rogue has agreed to let him finish up the experiments regarding her control."

"What?" Scott grimaced. "Professor, you're not going to let them…"

"What else can I do, Scott? They're adults. If they're both willing to accept the risks, I can only be there to insure certain safety procedures. But, that does sort of put Remy's contribution to the side, doesn't it? He's going to need this job; I've never seen him take rejection of any kind very well."

Scott sighed and shook his head. "When?"

Xavier smiled. "Well as soon as Hank releases him, of course. Oh! And as soon as Kitty's found the blueprints." He smiled, "Definitely glad she's on our side."

X

She blew into her bangs; they lifted, billowing over her forehead like a chocolate cloud before settling back against her skin in a tangled mess. The mansion had been oddly silent since the mission a month before. Remy was still in the med-lab; his injuries were very nearly healed but Hank was making him undergo some hijacked form of rehabilitation and had practically strapped him into a gurney to ensure that when he wasn't being 'rehabilitated', he was resting. Rogue, similarly, hadn't been very easy to socialize with. When she wasn't spending time with the professor, she was locked in their room or simply avoiding the med-lab. She was participating in some freak form of martyrdom and Kitty was at her wit's end.

That being the case, she couldn't have been happier to see the person approaching her table.

"_Bonjour_, Kitty." And he slid into the seat across from hers. "I don't suppose you've had your finger to the pulse?"

She grinned, snapping her laptop closed and sliding it away from her itchy fingers. "Is there still a pulse, JP? I hadn't felt one for weeks now."

His mannerisms lacked their usual cheerfulness, but he managed a hearty laugh that sounded like it came from his gut. "I'm afraid that you couldn't tell by me. I've been spending a lot of time in the 'pit.'" He licked his lips, his finger toying with the edge of her laptop. "Funny thing about the pit…I kind of thought there'd be other visitors."

Her eyes dropped and she, too, traced her finger around the laptop's curved edges. "You mean Rogue?"

He nodded, then, realizing she wasn't watching him, cleared his throat. "_Ouí_. Where has she been? Remy's asked for her." He leaned in, his hand catching Kitty's and his voice lowering. "He never asks for people."

She understood, knew the ramifications of Rogue's self-imposed exile. "She's scared, JeanPaul. She's afraid that by being around him, she'll hurt him. She's afraid that his powers trying to counteract her powers will prevent him from healing himself. And I think…I think she's afraid to see him because she wants to…she wants to touch him…hug him…you know…be _normal_."

"And it doesn't matter if she's completely covered or not, his body will still react with the force field." JP shook his head. "Poor girl can't get a break."

Kitty licked her lips. "She ran into Joe last night."

JP leaned forward, his eyebrows arching expectantly. "I thought you said there wasn't a pulse? Are you holding out on me?"

She shook her head. "No. She's sort of been avoiding him."

"Glad to hear that it isn't just Remy," he said icily.

Kitty narrowed her eyes at his tone. "Joe wants to take Remy's place. In the experiments. He wants to be the one to help her gain control."

A hiss sounded as air escaped through clenched teeth. "Wonderful."

"No, it's worse than that, JeanPaul. He told her he loves her."

"But does she love him?"

"She doesn't know. I think she loves Remy, but apparently, when she went to talk to him, to let him know that she liked him, guess who was coming out of his room?"

"When was this?"

"Right before the FOH incident. But she only just told me about it."

"Oh. Betsy, huh?"

"Right on the nose." Kitty tapped her own nose for emphasis. "The professor tells her she could hurt Remy by just being in the same room as him. She's already feeling guilty about the fact that he got shot. And then here comes Joe on his white horse." She rolled her eyes. "He told her that he wants to be able to kiss her…touch her for real. Anyway…she agreed to let Joe help her."

Something in the air shifted, electricity sizzled across the molecules and she felt her hair stand on end. The words hung there, horrible misrepresentations of what had actually been said only moments before. But they were stuck there, bloated, ugly…palpable in the mouths of those listening. Kitty turned her head then, her mouth falling open, a squeak obliterated the silence that had fallen about them.

He was standing there. Thick, gauzy pads rimmed in surgical tape decorated his shoulder, stark white against his tanned chest. His hair was longer; it dipped and curled and crept down the back of his neck stopping at the base. Across his ears it spilled as well before ending at the bottom of his jaw. His face, usually accented by an easy smirk, was long, somber…dark. He stood there, one hand gripping a nearby bookcase—his face, his hair, dark and wild. Like his eyes.

X

Hank rolled his shoulders and sighed. Joe was watching him with an expectant look on his face; Rogue was watching her hands. She curled her fingers in and out, crumpling the hem of her t-shirt and then releasing it. He cleared his throat; she raised her eyes.

"Are you sure? This is what you want to do?" He watched her eyes move to Joseph then back to him. When she nodded, he let out a breath. "Okay." Turning to the younger man, he pushed his spectacles further on his nose and reached for his clipboard. "There are some rather nasty side effects to Rogue's power. She will absorb you. You will lose consciousness. During this time, Rogue will have to face different facets of not only your personality, but also your memories. Are there any particularly violent aspects of your past that she should prepare for?"

Joe raised an eyebrow and caught Rogue's gloved hands in his. "You can't tell me that you gave this speech to Gambit. Just looking at him, I can tell he's got a past."

Hank pursed his lips and bit his tongue. "Remy has been a member of the X-Men for many years. I would appreciate it if—"

"And I would appreciate it if everyone would quit acting like he's this innocent child. It's his fault that Rogue had to absorb that guy. He's not above fault! He's not some martyr. I am here to help Rogue gain control of her powers. Let's just focus on that." He closed his eyes, shaking his head. "Look—I'm sorry. I know he's your friend and all. I'm just—I just want to help Rogue." He gave her hand a squeeze and smiled at her. "Helping her is worth whatever I have in my head."

"Dat's real noble of you, Joe, considerin' you ain't gon' be de one havin' t' deal wit' it."

Hank dropped his clipboard.

Remy was leaning against the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his bare chest. A bandana was tied around his head, but his hair spilled out and around it, though the piece of cloth managed to keep any loose locks from falling into his eyes. He wore no bandage on his shoulder. A nasty set of stitches zigzagged across the reddish-purple of his injury; it looked misplaced against the rest of his tanned skin. He was staring into the room, his features awkwardly misplaced by the aggressive posture of his body. His eyes moved from Joe to Rogue, stopping there. His lips twitched slightly and he managed a tight smile.

"_Bonjour, chére_." It was quiet.

The room felt like all the oxygen had been sucked from it.

She swallowed, her hands pulling from Joe's grip and twisting into the fabric over her heart. She licked her lips, forced herself to look up. "' Mornin', Sparky."

Joe was on his feet. He moved to stand in front of the Cajun. "This is a private meeting with our doctor. Can I help you?" He narrowed his eyes menacingly.

Remy returned the look with just as much acid. "Non. I just come by to tell Rogue an' her new guinea pig good luck." He turned to see Hank's pale face. Quite an accomplishment considering it was covered in dark blue fur. "I'll be in de Danger Room, _Henri_." His gaze moved back to rest on Rogue. "Got me some frustrations to work out." His lips curled cruelly as he tipped his head to the man in front of him. "Joe." And he disappeared down the hall.

Hank licked his lips and watched as Joe moved stiffly back to his chair. "Well…ahem…we—cough—we'll begin the procedure momentarily. I just want to go over some things with you." He spared a glance to Rogue. She was still toying with her shirt, but he was sure that he noticed water drops on the fabric.

X

"How long has he been down there?"

She checked the computer. "Three hours."

JP blew his hair away from his eyes. "What in the world for?"

"You know how he is." Ororo leaned back in her chair on the observation deck. "He's thinking."

"Aahh, yes, but the question remains, my dear, weather witch, what is he thinking about?" He watched as a pink projectile sailed through the air and exploded against a holographic building. Rubble tumbled to the ground like a cement waterfall.

Gambit back flipped away from the building, landing neatly on top of a car. Sweat rolled down his cheeks and he smiled. Another brace of playing cards sailed from his hands; they detonated on contact, an avalanche coursed down the building. His smiled widened and he dug into his pockets, turning them out as he searched for more cards.

The car shook, screaming from its hinges, as it lifted into the air. He careened toward the trunk, the shakiness in his step coming from the awkwardness with which the car was moving. It began to spin around a make-believe thread, knocking him off balance. The centrifuge forced him away, and he slid on his stomach across the slick metal. His hands flew out, scrambling for a hold; he curled his fingers around the spoiler and held on. The car pitched and bucked and spun in the opposite direction. His shoulder burned; his legs were heavy and threatened to tear away his already-hindered grasp, yet he held on and the car switched directions again.

His fingers ached and he gritted his teeth against the strain. Finally, they peeled away. He threw up his hands, flipping the bird to his invisible adversary and crashing into a mess of trashcans. He groaned. His body throbbed from the impact; he wanted to dig out the pain in his shoulder with his bare hands. "_Merde_!"

"Aw, yes, Gambit, swear your defeat."

A man with long silver hair lowered from the sky and alighted atop the suspended car. His sharp blue eyes pinned Gambit to his spot. "I see the trash is ready to be picked up."

"Hardy-har-har." He bit back. "You're such a fucker." He scrambled up, only to be thrown back down by a flying trashcan lid.

"And yet, I win, Gambit." Joseph smiled sourly. "I win _everything_."

He got a snarl in response.

Joseph's smile deepened. "I have everything you want but can't have. I've won this game…and I've got Rogue. I'd say that's just about everything."

"High card wins." A smirk slid across his face. "But, me? I'd rather play with a full house."

Underneath Joe's feet, the car was glowing a bright fuchsia. It squealed and popped and burned brighter as each of its atoms was taken over, their potential energy pushed and prodded and…charmed…by Gambit's control.

The explosion rocked the room.

The windows burst like the sides of a bubble. Dust powdered throughout the control room. The monitors blinked, restarting after the power surge. Ororo pulled herself up from the floor, careful to shake the shards of glass from her locks. "JP? You all right?"

He coughed, nodding. "Swell. What the hell was that?"

She peered out the observation deck, searching the Danger Room's floor for their friend. "Gambit," her voice was low, whispered, "That was Gambit."

"Remind me not to piss him off."

They waved the thick dust from their faces and covered their mouths and noses with their hands. They watched as flames licked at the car's crumpled skeleton, growing and waning against the dirty air. They squinted their eyes, searching through the piles of human waste and commercial trash that littered the streets of the dilapidated city block. Ororo sucked in a breath; a tiny squeal escaped her mouth but was camouflaged by her hand. JP turned to look at her and caught the sight himself. He cringed. A human skeleton, charred and smoking, lay in the twisting flames of the car.

A monotone voice sounded. "Personal program: Gambit vs. Joseph ended. Gambit wins."

A heartbeat later and the scene disintegrated. Ororo glanced behind her as the computer whirred, saving the statistics of the run. She felt JP's elbow in her ribs and when she turned to him, he beckoned for her to look into the Danger Room once more. Lying on the floor, dust lazily floating down beside him, was Gambit. Dirt and sweat streaked down his face and blood had begun to seep through his duster, mixing with more dirt and leaving a reddish-black bloom to grow across his shoulder. His face was tired, but there was a combination of pain and pride contorting his face in separate waves. Breathing hard, he managed a smile.

"Gambit wins. I like de sound of dat."

JP shuddered, turned to Ororo. "So…I think I know what this is about."

X

The whir of Xavier's wheelchair sounded behind him and he greeted the professor without bothering to turn around. "Hello, Charles."

Xavier stopped beside him, looking up at Hank's thoughtful countenance. "You wanted to talk with me?"

Hank turned then, his face splitting into a toothy grin. "Yes!" He grabbed a stool and scraped it across the floor. Whirling around, he dropped his girth onto the round seat. It wobbled slightly, but he didn't seem to notice, his attention was back to the MRI on the screen. "I performed the experiment with Rogue and Joseph earlier this afternoon." He waited for a response; Xavier nodded and he continued. "I think I may have found something." He allowed himself a chuckle, sweeping his hand across his jaw. "I can't believe it was this simple!"

Xavier glanced up at the image of Rogue's brain. Different colors swept across the image. "What do you see, Hank?"

"First I want to go on record as saying that I think you need to offer couple's counseling. Her hypothalamus isn't even registering. There. I've said it." He continued, missing the dubious expression on Xavier's face. "See this area here?" He circled a large section at the upper back part of her brain. "This is the parietal lobe. If you remember, when we had her touch Remy a small section of this lobe lit up. I wasn't surprised considering touch is one of the parietal's occupations, but this time, I've noticed that more has been stimulated. What's more, Charles, these areas have been lit up." He circled a section on both sides of her brain. "These are the temporal lobes. They are responsible for memory. Long-term, short-term…this is where you put all those state capitals when you were in fourth grade."

Xavier raised an eyebrow.

Hank chuckled. "Well, maybe not you…since your British. But that's what I did. Anyway," he was rubbing his hand across his chin again. "Now, if you'll look. A section of a different lobe is lit up as well." He took his pen and once again circled its tip around another area. "This is the—"

"Frontal lobe."

Hank seemed rather nonplussed at the professor's interruption, but quickly shook it off, smiling down at the older man. "Right. It controls memory also…for one's habits. When it is damaged, it can cause changes in one's personality. Sound familiar?"

"So all three of these areas are activated whenever Rogue touches someone?"

Hank nodded. "Not immediately, but might as well be for as fast as it happens. First, her parietal lobe is activated—touch. Then, her temporal lobes—her long term memory—where those psyches she absorbs set up house. Finally, her frontal lobe is affected, and she takes on their personalities for a short time. Actually…for 60 times the amount of time she touched them."

Xavier nodded. "And how long can we expect Joe's personality to be in her?"

Hank's brow wrinkled. "Let's see…she touched him for about 1 minute…so…I'd say at least an hour…give or take a little."

"Splendid. Perhaps he'll be up in time for dinner. Do you think you can do anything with this information?"

Hank nodded. "I have other scans from today. I just need to plot the course more efficiently, but I think I might have something. This might actually be controlled with medications. I'm not one hundred percent yet, or anything. But, I think there might be something here, Professor." He smiled. "I sure hope there is, anyway."

"I don't think Rogue will disagree with you there."

"Hank!"

The two men looked up to see Ororo and JP with Remy in tow. The two older mutants were on either side of their friend. All three were covered in dirt, though Remy seemed quite a bit filthier. JP was at his right, Remy's arm was slung across his shoulder and the former seemed to be helping him stay upright. Ororo was on his left, holding his arm still and sending worried blue eyes to stare up at Hank.

Remy was slick and smiling. "Hey, Hank! Prof.!" His lips split into a full-on smile, dimples and all. "What's goin' on?"

Ororo glared at her friend. "You are being impossible!" She sent another pleading look at the men before her. "Henry, come and look at his shoulder."

The doctor crossed the room and sucked in his breath at the sight of the bloody pool spreading across the fabric of Remy's duster. "_What_ did you do?"

Remy chuckled.

JP groaned. "I think he's delirious."

"_Non._ I was jus' rehabilitatin' myself, 's'all." He laughed again. "An' I won."

Hank shook his head. "I'd hate to see the other guy."

JP and Ororo exchanged a glance. Hank shook his head again. "Now I know I'd hate to see the other guy. Remy, you can't push yourself this hard. We talked about that. Remember?"

"_Ouí_. Di'n't t'ink it'd matter none. Since nobody wants me 'round anyway." His jovial tone turned to ice.

Hank chewed on his lip. "Take off that smelly coat and sit down. I have to get a look at your shoulder." He indicated to the stool; JP and Ororo guided their friend to it, neither letting go of their hold on him.

Xavier was watching the young man quietly. He cleared his throat; everyone looked up. "Actually, Remy, I have a mission for you."

Ororo's brow furrowed. "You can't be serious! He's not—"

"'Ro!" JP's stern voice stopped her.

Xavier continued. "It's reconnaissance. But nothing fancy. I don't want anyone to know you've been there."

Remy winced slightly. Hank was re-stitching his shoulder. "Who's de target?"

"The Friends of Humanity."

He chuckled. "What am I stealing?"

"Information."

"About?"

"Everything."

* * *

Hey! See what a little ice storm can do? Well, that, and being house-ridden for almost a week. :)

I want to thank all of those who reviewed: RayneXX, RemysRogue, willa. j, TheCocoaBean, flaming-mod, Coletterby, Claire Starling, Rogue4787, Lucia de'Medici, cooltangerine, Captain Annie, Shi, Zoe Saugin, mela, RhiamonWaterMystic, KillingBellaDonna, Remy's Rose, IvyZoe, Chica De Los Ojos Cafe, Like Pluto No Longer A Planet, blackagenda, musagirl15, FluidDegree, Southern Loner, Kant, Illusion to Life, Ms. Rogue LeBeau, Burning Touch, TaraFish, Mercy P. Jones, ishandahalf, naemis, & Andy1316.

I also want to thank those of you who added Broken Road as one of your favorites!

**Well, now...Let's see...So, Remy did give it to Joe...sort of...but in helluva more responsible manner than he should. Much better to blow up holograms than actual team members. I have a feeling Xavier would look down on the latter way. So...what's going to happen now that Hank may have a way to control Rogue's powers for good? Will she stay with Joe or will her feelings for Remy win out? Will Remy stay mad at Rogue? How's that mission to the FOH establishment going to go? What will come of the mission? And what will its effect be on Remy and Rogue's relationship? Things are really starting to heat up!**


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Finally. He could go back to his own room and leave that dungeon of a medical facility behind him. Good. Because if he had to stay another minute in what JP had so affectionately named 'The Pit', he'd blow it up. Consequences be damned. He allowed himself a self-satisfied smirk as he realized that Joseph was probably lying comatose down there at that very moment. Guess it wouldn't be a total loss if the whole basement went up in a magenta flame.

He grimaced. His shoulder was throbbing and he moved his palm over the place where Hank had just stitched him up. Damn thing felt like it was on fire. But it was worth it, he grinned, rolling it backwards and forwards again for good measure. He shifted in front of his door, taking a deep breath.

Twisting the doorknob, he pushed into his room with very little flourish. He stopped short.

The room was bathed in a low, watery light; someone had closed the blinds and drawn the curtains. Candles stood guard over his desktop and nightstand. The long flames licked and whipped against the air, casting wavering shadows against the opposite wall. He could hear the low, sultry undertones of a jazz band as they bled through the air, shimmering and incandescent waves of pure soul that flowed and ebbed to the flutter of the candles' flames.

"Remy."

Her voice bore that soft, silken tone that reminded him of satin sheets and salty skin. She moved from the corner of the room, her ivory nightgown luminescent in the candlelight. It was short, stopping at the top of her thighs and flowing about her hips like a flower's bloom. It's neckline was low, skimming the tops of her breasts, and reaching over her shoulders with delicate straps that dipped down her back and connected somewhere in the middle. Her skin glowed, freshly scrubbed, and he could smell the faint hint of cherry blossoms as she moved toward him.

His lips hitched on one side and he favored her with a sad smile. His hand reached up, cupping her cheek, and his fingers tangled into the cascade of purple curls that tumbled across her shoulder. She leaned into it; her smile strangely different than it had been on the other occasions she had let herself into his room. She seemed gentler…realer…and he felt a whimper of regret in his chest.

She licked her lips, looking up into his eyes, her features trembling. A second later, and her arms were around his neck, her face smashing into him. He felt the warm water slide down to his shoulder and he wrapped his arms around her petite frame. She shook against him and he pressed his lips into her hair.

"Shh, Betsy, shh. It's okay." His voice was low, soothing, and he ran his fingers down the length of her hair, stopping within inches of her back's curve. He gripped her shoulders and gently pushed her away from him. She was beautiful and he wished…he wished he loved her.

Mascara pooled under her eyes and he chuckled, his thumb wiping away the smudges before he kissed her forehead and hugged her once again.

"I was really scared," she admitted, her shoulders shaking as a new set of tears spilled down her cheeks. She looked at him then, stepping back to stare into his eyes. "I was so awful to you that last time." She shook her head, stared down at her hands. "I just…I'm just not…I'm just not used to being rejected." Her strawberry lips twisted into a pout as she looked into his eyes once more. "Or looked over."

He nodded, chuckling at the irony of it all. "Me neither, _chére_. And yet it's happened."

She shook her head and turned away from him, sweeping across the space to sit demurely on his bed. "I do care what happens to you, Remy." She smiled at him, her lips parting slightly to show dazzling white teeth than returning to a frown. "I really thought you were going to die. There was so much blood and we didn't know what happened."

He nodded, crossing to his desk to pull the chair out. He straddled it, his arms resting on its back. "I got shot."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah…got that part." She picked at the hem of her gown. "I just—I just kept thinking how awful I was to you that last time. I was very cruel." She pursed her lips. "I was mad—hurt—that you had picked someone over me. Have you picked her over me?"

He sighed. "Don' t'ink it matters none. I got overlooked too."

"Oh. Well…I wanted to apologize."

He chuckled, circled his finger through the air, indicating the room. "This your apology?"

She laughed. It was light and fluttery and danced about the room like a butterfly. "This is the precursor to my apology."

He watched as her eyelids dropped down, half-drawn shades over violet windows. She watched him, moved toward him with a slow twist in her hips, the ivory material fluttering about the tops of those long legs. She stopped in front of him, her hands resting on the sides of the chair's back. Strawberry lips parted, and the scent of cherry blossoms swept over him.

She leaned down, her smile capturing his lips. He groaned, pulled her toward him, his fingers curling into her hair, his kiss grew hungrier.

This was her apology. And dammit if he didn't want to accept it. He wanted it—he wanted her. At least she was real—touchable. At least it was something he could feel. And he wanted to feel. Anything was better than the numbness within his chest.

He stood up; his mouth was still on hers and he felt her sigh into his kiss, their tongues tangling together. He sidestepped over the chair, his hands smoothing down her sides and he stooped, catching her thighs and lifting her legs up and around his waist. He pushed his hands farther up, slipping them beneath the delicate material and cupping her bottom in his hands.

He carried her to the bed, pushing her down into the blankets, pressing his body over her own. She bit at his lip, her tongue tracing it, running across it. Her fingers left his shoulders and met at the top of his jeans. She pulled his t-shirt away, her fingers fluttered against the tightness of his stomach, tracing the contours of his muscles, tickling him with her butterfly-like touch. A second later and he could feel her hands unbuttoning him, unzipping him, freeing him so that he could push farther, faster, deeper…

He squeezed his eyes tighter. Deeper. He could go deeper. He could take her as deep as she could stand. Deeper until she screamed and begged and cried out his name, until her nails stung against his skin. Deeper. Into the oblivion of darkness and sweat and sex. Deeper. Until the smell of their flesh, their actions, permeated the air around them, making the candles flicker against the humidity, collapsing on themselves. Deeper…

She was pushing his jeans away from him, her hands greedy at the gap in his boxers. He kissed her harder. Squeezed his eyes closed.

His hands were on her hips and he moved them around, finding that she had not bothered with lacy panties. He would have just ripped them anyway… His hands continued up, as he skimmed the bottoms of her breasts, sent a feathery caress across her nipples. She sighed.

He could almost hear the wind rushing across the top of the Mississippi.

"Remy…"

But it wasn't the Mississippi; it was the Thames.

And God help him…he couldn't take her deeper.

He swallowed, pushed away from her, pulling his jeans up from around his knees. He felt awkward…uncertain…like a teen-age boy about to make his first way around the bases. She was staring at him, her brow furrowed, her eyes slanted in confusion. He couldn't bear to look at her. She was a damned telepath. Did he have to spell it out for her? Did he have to actually say what was happening in his head…in his heart?

"Remy?" She looked hurt, innocent…a victim of his witless sense of honor.

"I can't…Betts…I want to…but I can't."

She leaned back into a pillow, her breasts rising and falling as she breathed. She ran her fingertips over them, rubbing them to pebbled peaks; her eyes half-closed, glimmering against the watery light. "If you want to…it's okay."

He shook his head, trying to drag his eyes away…trying to keep his head in control. "It won' be right, Betts."

Now she pushed her hands lower, teasing him with the way she moved them across her own body, her eyes hooded, her back arching. "It'll feel good, Remy. Don't you want to feel good?"

He backed away from her, his eyes locked to her body, his desperate need for someone to want him collecting in his nether regions and pulling him toward her. "I can't."

Her eyes opened and she propped herself up on her elbows. "Why not? Because you don't love me? I don't care about that." She kicked her feet to the floor, moved toward him, slowly, seductively. "But, I've been waiting to spend tonight with you." She traced a finger down his chest, its zigzagged route taking it over his nipples, below his belt.

He swallowed, felt himself weaken under the softness, the directness of her touch. "I…I want someone else."

She stopped, her eyes turned frosty. "Even if she doesn't want you?"

Her tone was venom. He was a little surprised by the sharpness of it.

"She doesn't want you, Remy. She wants Joseph."

His gaze turned dark. "You need to leave."

"You might as well face it, Remy. She wants to control her powers so he can fuck her brains out." She pretended to pick lint from her gown. "She doesn't want you."

"Good night, Betsy." And he ushered her out his door.

X

He loved her.

Wind-whipped waves barreled into her and she crashed into the realization with a muffled groan. Her heart beat itself into her chest, hammering away with the adrenaline of a trapped animal whose only remaining option was to chew off its own foot. She choked against his swirling memories, her arms flailing out from her chest, her feet pedaling an invisible bike. She tried to stay afloat. To keep her head above the rising tide of his feelings, his past. But the wind was too strong and every so often it would kick up the foam and send it on top of her head, clouding her own rationalizations and confusing her.

He really believed he loved her.

She reached an arm out, her fingers digging into a rock, some jagged, broken sentry that stood tall and strong against the onslaught of his memories. It was permanent, solid, and she felt her skin crack and bleed against its sharp surface, but she still clutched at it, still pulled herself into its solidity.

It was the only thing that she could find that was her. And no matter how broken or painful it was, she needed to hold on to it, or she would be lost in the storm.

Joseph's memories whirl-pooled around her, sucking at her feet, trying to pull her from the rock. She kicked at the currents, stuffed her toes into razor-like crevices and inched further up. Her skin sliced and she watched as crimson clouds spread from her feet, curling into the dark waters beneath her.

Red inking into black.

Red in black.

Red.

Black.

She pressed her cheek into the rock. Her body shook; cold shivers tickling up and down her spine, as she drew in a shaky breath. The cuts deep in her skin closed—slow, excruciating as her skin knitted itself back together, sealed her away from the waters around her. But red had gotten through. And black had gotten through. And now the only pain came from the numbness in her chest. She felt the rock quiver beneath her. It pulled in, pushed out. Pumped the black, pumped the red, mixed them together until all she could see was deep red orbs floating across a black sea. Two of them. They shimmered. They swam. They were beautiful.

He loved her. He was sure of it.

But he was not her stronghold.

X

Xavier rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. It had been a long month, and the promise of an even longer one was right around the corner. He sighed, shaking his head, as he continued to read Kitty's report. She had found the warehouse's blueprints…but he didn't ask how or where. Some things were better left unsaid. Besides, it unnerved him that someone so young and petite had such a gigantic mind for all things computerized. Sometimes it was just better to nod and accept his place in the world. This was one of those times. And, if he dared to ask a question, he'd get a long, drawn out explanation a la Hank and he wasn't up for that either.

He sent out a psychic wave, honing in on the person who would need the blue prints to complete the next phase of the Friends' infiltration; Remy was not in his room. Xavier pushed a little further to find the young man on the roof. He considered mentally calling to him. A second later and he abandoned the idea all together. He would discuss the plan more completely in the morning. Right now…business of another kind needed to be sorted. Xavier slid the plans into his desk before switching out the light and heading to bed.

X

The smoke curled into the night wind, a gray twisted line that bled into the blackness around it. He watched it swirl from the fiery end of the cigarette held loosely between his fingers. He exhaled; the smoke caught the shift in the air and swung out from him, its route momentarily disrupted, before sliding back into its well-worn trail.

He brought it to his lips and inhaled. A second later, and the smoke rose from two different points of origin. He licked his mouth, felt the early March air drag across his lips, cooling them, cracking them, and he scratched his thumb over the top of his bottom lip. He licked again; the metallic tang of blood stayed on the tip of his tongue.

The moon shone high in the night sky, its silvery glow shifting the shadows along the mansion's grounds. Trees became sentinels; lampposts became boogey-men. He dropped his gaze to the roof, caught the elongated form of his own shadow. Gargoyle. How hideously perfect. He snorted, crushed the cigarette into the shingles, and wiped his hands down his face.

The ugliness he felt within himself burned from the pit of his stomach.

He wasn't what she wanted. Betsy had hit the nail on the head. He wasn't enough for her. And he wondered what about him made him less of a man than Joseph. Was it his eyes? He didn't think she hated them, didn't believe that she thought he was a demon. He knew she thought he was handsome…at least, he thought she thought he was handsome. Maybe she didn't really. Maybe it had all been him. Maybe he had charmed her on accident. But weren't they friends? Why hadn't she come to visit him in the med-lab?

She doesn't want you.

_Shut-up, Betsy._

He dug into his trench coat, his hand crushing around his pack of cigarettes. The nicotine was in his system before he even registered lighting the tip. Scratching a hand through his unkempt hair, he let his bangs fall into his eyes. It was an excuse to hide. Not that he needed one alone on the roof, but his pride did. He wanted to feel like a man, and men didn't hide…especially not X-Men.

When he heard the scraping, he squeezed his eyes tighter, hoping that he would just blend into the night, become invisible. No such luck. Instead, he heard the sweet gasp of the River, smelled the faint wind-swept scent of magnolias, and he couldn't help but open his eyes.

She was looking up at him, her perfect mouth hanging slightly open in an 'o'. Her hair, kissed by the breeze, swept behind her back, but a few wisps cut across her cheeks. His fingers twitched as he fought the urge to hook them about the wayward curls and tuck them behind her ears. If he touched her, he thought, he would break.

Instead, he offered a tight smile and a nod of his head. "Evenin' _chére_." It was raspy and rough and he thought he saw the pulse in her neck quicken.

She swallowed. "Hi, Remy."

He nodded toward his side. "Dere's room 'nough for ya."

She licked her lips; he felt his groin tighten. "D'ya mind?"

"No."

She pulled herself up, laying her torso against the shingles. He could see the shadow of her cleavage in the moonlight and he wished he could kiss her there. Jamming his hands into his pockets, he searched for something—anything—to occupy them as thoughts of alabaster breasts and perfectly pink nipples flooded his brain. He fisted material and gritted his teeth, his eyes following the curve of her back, the swell of her butt, until she had righted herself once more and was sitting too close and too far for him to handle.

She was staring at her hands—free and gloveless—in her lap. They were shaking, he noticed, and he bit into his lip at the thought of touching her, even if it was only her hands.

"Y' cold?" he asked instead.

She shook her head, her locks swayed around her. She cast a sidelong glance in his direction. He was shaking. "Are you?"

He chuckled half-heartedly, turned away from her, and sucked on a cigarette like it was his only source of oxygen. "_Non_."

She felt stiff, uncontrolled in his presence, and she desperately needed control around him. He was the only one who gave her control and took it completely away at the same time. "How're you feeling?" As soon as the question left her lips, she wished she had asked anything else.

His eyes burned crimson, and he slid them across to stare at her. They sizzled, fiery coal pits that had just been ignited. His brow raised, he offered a bitter smile. "What do you care?"

She felt her cheeks reddening under his intensely degrading stare. Her words came out in a hushed whisper, much too forced for her own liking. "That's not fair."

His lips crooked upwards and he slid across the shingles, closing the gap between his body and hers. For a second, he looked stunned, thrown off, and she shivered as she felt the electricity flood from the barely there touch of his knee on her leg. She swallowed, gasped for air, and shuddered when the warmth from his breath grazed her cheek.

His eyelids dropped over the swirling red pools; his lips opened slightly. She heard a grating sound and her eyes dropped to see his fingers digging at the shingles like he was trying to find anything to hold on to. He licked his lips, his heart thrumming with the tension consuming him.

"Four weeks, Rogue. Four weeks an' you di'n't come see me."

She gave a slight gasp; not enough air could fill her lungs. "Ah couldn't."

He moved closer. She was on fire.

"_Pourquoi pas_? (Why not?)"

"Ah didn't want to hurt you."

He pulled back, and stared at her for a long time, the sensual droop of his eyelids disappearing for wide-eyed assessment. "Hurt me how, _p'tite_?"

She shuddered, hugged her arms to her chest. "It's complicated, Remy."

A harsh laugh. He moved away from her, his body too far and too close at the same time. "How is your boyfriend?"

She tensed. The coldness in the space between them sent ice prickles down her spine. She felt her lip curl into a sneer, felt the heat rise from her core and burn into her face, an angry flush that showed pink on her pale cheeks.

If he hadn't been so angry, he'd have told her she was beautiful. Instead, he looked down at her, a snarl of his own tugging at his lips as she spoke.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It's complicated." He mocked, snubbing the cigarette on the shingles and turning to stare angrily at her. "Too busy letting Joe fuck your brains out?"

Her eyes widened—wild and angry—and she struck out, the palm of her hand jarring his face, catching him off guard. A second later and the tears free-flowed down her cheeks. "Fuck you, Remy Lebeau! How dare you talk to me like that!" She hiccupped, her shoulders moving up and down as erratically as her breathing.

He narrowed his eyes. "Why not?!" He yelled back at her, catching her arms in his hands and forcing her to look at him. "Why de hell not? It's true! I would've died for you out dere and all you can t'ink about is getting control. Screw de fact dat I was holed up in de pit. You couldn't even make time to come visit me. No…you was too busy tryin' t' find a way to touch Joe. Well, I can fuckin' touch you! An' what's it gotten me?!"

She fought his grasp, struggled under the tight clutch of his fingers. "Ah don't want you to touch me!" He stopped, his grip slackening, and she continued, sobbing through the words, not even believing them as they poured from her lips. "What makes you think that touching you completes my life? Do you have any idea what it's like not to be able to touch anyone ever? No! So, fuck you! You go around slipping your dick to anyone that you want and it doesn't matter how they or anyone feels about it so long as you get your rocks off! Well, Ah don't want that. If that's all you have to offer, Ah don't want that. Ah want to touch someone who loves me not someone who just touches for the hell of it!" She covered her face, her arms free.

He sat before her, his hands in his lap as he stared down at them. He grimaced at the sound of her sobs. "Rogue, I—" he swallowed, shook his head. "I didn't mean it like that." He reached out, his hand grazing her hair. She scooted away from him, her face still hidden in her hands. He squeezed his eyes closed. "Look, I—I hope—I hope Joe can help you. I was just mad, s'all, p'tite. I know it's not a good reason for what I said, but it's the only one I got." He stopped, bit his lip, and looked at the curtain of auburn and white shading her from his view. "No wonder you di'n't wan' come visit me," he muttered under his breath. Licking his lips, he took a deep breath and let it out. "_Je suis désolé_. (I am sorry.)"

He dropped off the roof into the darkness.

She opened her eyes; the moon's light kissed her tears. "Me, too."

X

Xavier watched quietly as Remy spread the blueprints across the top of the desk and ran his fingers along the pencil-fine lines of the warehouse's make-up. The younger man's face was impassive—completely absent of any real, raw emotion.

The deep, dark eyes moved silently from side to side, seemingly tracking the sketches before him in a rhythmic manner not unlike one would read a book's page. Xavier shifted in his wheelchair, not completely convinced that the thief was seeing what was right in front of him.

The professor cleared his throat, ran his tongue across the fronts of his teeth, and chewed on his bottom lip. If he'd been able, he'd have been pacing the room, hands locked behind his back, wearing a rut into the floor. Instead, he soothed himself by rocking side to side, his eyes locked on those of the young man before him.

"Nervous, P'fessor?" Remy turned those dark eyes to him, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

Xavier sighed. "Yes, dammit. I am. This is a serious mission, Remy. I don't need to remind you what this organization is capable of. We have to know what they know. It's the only way to stop the genocide of the mutant population."

Remy half-shrugged and his mouth quirked to one side. "It's cake," he said, his fingers swirling across the blueprints as he indicated a diagram.

Scott had been standing silently by the window. He was a little less sure of the ease in Remy's flippant tone. "What kind of cake, Remy? Vanilla or rocky road?"

"Do dey make rocky road cake?" Remy's eyebrow rose. "T'ought dat was ice cream."

"Knock it off, Cajun. You know what I mean." Scott moved to the desk and stared at the plans. They might as well have been Egyptian hieroglyphics for all he could make out. "What's the history on this place? What was it before it was the Friends' clubhouse?"

Xavier consulted the thick pad of paper in his lap. "Well, let's see what Kitty's research tells us." He dropped the pad on the desk in front of Scott and Remy. The thud that resonated from the impact had the two younger men exchanging glances.

"Well," Scott admitted, "Kitty's nothing if not thorough."

"Thorough?" Remy parroted, poking at the two-inch thick pad with a weary finger, "what, she go back to prehistoric times?"

X

He heard her gasp before he entered the room.

She was standing at the kitchen counter, clutching her left hand with her right. She was shaking, her lips pursed and her eyes closed, and he could hear the unsteady breaths as they spilled from her half-opened mouth. He saw the knife a second later, its shiny blade pointing away from her with tiny red drops leading from its tip.

"You okay?" He moved toward her; she opened her eyes, backed away from him.

"Fine."

"Let me see your hand."

"Leave me alone." She bit at her bottom lip, turned away from him, her hands trembling as she clutched them to her.

"Damn it, Rogue! Let me see it now!" His eyes were like balls of fire set against a night sky and she knew better than to protest anymore. He grabbed her wrist and uncurled her fingers. Crimson drops, unfurling like sleeping roses, spread across the light gray silk of her gloves. His breath hissed through his teeth and she thought she heard a whispered "F-f-uck!" catch on his tongue. He started to remove her glove; his fingertips grazed the flesh of her wrist.

A flame started at his light touch and flickered throughout her body, spreading its warmth throughout her. It pained her and saved her both at once. But the pain was too much, too full of the agony of need for her to stand it any longer and she ripped away from his grip, her tone low, warning, "Don't touch me."

His jaw twitched and she knew she had hurt him. He grabbed her wrist back, his fingers wrapping around the silk cuff of her glove. A stone set in his eye as he looked from her hand to her face and back again; then, he nonchalantly flipped a knife from out of nowhere.

"Whoa! Hold it!" Her eyes went wide and she considered the weapon guardedly. "What do you think ya're gonna do with that thing?"

He rolled his eyes at her, his voice strained, angry. "Stab you." Pinching the light fabric at her wrist, he slid the cool blade under the cuff and tipped the point up, slicing the silk down the middle. He flipped the knife again and it disappeared into nothingness; she raised an eyebrow.

"Where'd you learn that particular trick, Mr. Lebeau?"

"Boy scout camp." He grabbed the newly split ends and pulled, ripping the remainder of the fabric clean to the end of her fingers. He pulled the glove away and winced at the puddle of blood resting in her palm. He grabbed a washcloth and wet it in the sink before gently using it to soak up the blood.

She jerked her hand back as the warm water stung at the cut. He narrowed his eyes and gripped her wrist firmly again, pulling the offending appendage toward him for a better look, his fingers so close to her skin but never touching. "Might go git it checked; Hank's still hangin' out in de pit." Gingerly, he wiped the area with the cloth and instructed her to put pressure against it before popping the cabinet doors under the sink and pulling out a first aid kit.

She watched quietly as he dressed her wound. When he had finished, he caught her eye, and then pressed his lips into the gauzy force field protecting her palm. Flutters escaped through her body at the feel of his warm breath against her wrist. She wanted to pull away, pull him closer, run like hell…Instead, she swallowed, managed a grin, "If'n ya think Ah look bad, you should see the other guy," she joked.

He chuckled; his eyes focused on her too intently for a moment and she felt herself silently pleading with him to continue with the harmless banter. As if reading her thoughts, he pulled his bright eyes away from her own and stared at the kitchen counter, an eyebrow raised in strained amusement. "Yeah. Looks like de chicken salad di'n't have a chance in hell."

She smiled at that and slowly withdrew her hand from his grasp. The tingles were flowing through her completely now and she felt weakened, unable to stand so close. She thought about the roof and swallowed, sweeping away from him as she collected her sandwich and tossed the offending cutlery into the sink. She chanced a glance and he was still standing there, his eyes fixed on her, cutting into her with the sharpness of a thousand knives…

"Rogue…" his voice was low, thick like the mud along the Mississippi…like home. He swallowed, ran his tongue across his lips—and she remembered how soft they had felt against her own. He cleared his throat and began again. "Rogue…I—"

"There you are." Joseph pushed past Remy like he was dusting a speck of lint from his coat. "I've been looking for you."

Red flashed from Remy's narrowed eyes. His jaw clenched as Joe cast a quick glance at him from over his shoulder, and then pointedly turned, blocking Rogue from the Cajun's sight. "I was hoping I could take you out for dinner tonight. You know…to celebrate." Joe reached for Rogue's hand, his brow furrowing when he saw the neat bandage. "Are you okay?"

Rogue sucked in a breath, unaware that she had stopped breathing since Joe had walked into the room. She was…afraid? Afraid that Joe would say something harsh to Remy and afraid that Remy would feed him his spleen on a plate for it. Her answer was rushed, a whispered breath that sounded forced and frantic. "Yeah, fine." She tugged her hand away from Joe, swept a curl behind her ear, and stepped to the side. She refused to participate in this pissing contest; there was no way she'd win. Besides, she wanted to catch Remy's eye, to let him know that…that…

It didn't matter.

He wasn't there.

"Rogue?"

She blinked. He had just been there. He had held her hand, kissed her palm…sort of…touched her…again.

"Rogue?"

She looked up. Joe was standing over her, his eyelids half-closed over blue eyes. His voice was low, seductive. "So, I'll pick you up at eight?"

She felt the breath leave her mouth. Her chest felt heavy…like something heavy was pushing against her, pressing so hard…with so much force…that breathing was a chore. He had just been there.

"Is eight okay?"

He wasn't there.

She pulled herself up to her full height and plastered a plastic smile across her face. "Eight is perfect, Joe."

X

Grimacing, Gambit inspected the lock on the metal door. Insulting, that's what it was. There was no real necessity for finesse, for style. As a thief he found it to be a wallop to his pride, not to mention a dig at his skill. It wasn't right for just any Tom, Dick, or Henri to fit a door with a lock…and it wasn't natural either. Only those possessing the finite skills of a thief should ever be qualified for locksmith work. It made sense after all. They would always be the only ones really capable of creating the un-crack-able lock. He sighed, an agitated sound that seemed to well up from the very bottom of his soul before sliding across his vocal cords and out his mouth.

It was much the same way with women.

Only men with true style…truly capable skills as a mate or lover…should ever be allowed to woo a woman. It wasn't right for Joe Blow—he smiled at that—to possess a beautiful, fiery woman. He wouldn't do right by her. It wasn't that Joe Blow was a bad guy, he reasoned, grabbing a tool from the pack attached to his belt. It was that he didn't own the certain skills necessary for keeping a woman like that happy. A woman like Rogue happy. Besides, he concluded, Joe was a wet noodle. There was no fire in him. And too much time spent with him would undeniably cool the flame within her. And that would kill him, Remy decided, it would utterly kill him if she became anything less than what she was, what she was meant to be.

And what she was was perfect. For him.

He wished he'd told her that.

He wished he'd cold-clocked Joe when he had the chance.

Shaking off the feeling, Gambit pressed a tension wrench into the lock and held it against the plug while simultaneously sliding in a pick. He pushed the slender tool to the back of the lock, his senses alert to the feel of metal against metal and his ears straining for the quiet yet distinct _click_ of each pin as he tricked them into moving up their respective shafts. Five pins. Five clicks. He pushed the wrench down, turning the plug the rest of the way before twisting the doorknob and entering the warehouse.

Security was minimal. According the Kitty's extensive research, the warehouse had once housed government offices that had worked in conjunction with backers of the Mutant Registration Act. Since the dismissal of the MRA, the offices had gone the more… private route and now worked—under the table, of course—with human supremacy groups like the Friends of Humanity. Unfortunately, with government money no longer setting that table, security perks had suffered.

"Doesn't matter," Gambit had admitted at the briefing with Xavier and Scott, "there ain't been a security system invented dat can keep me out."

Scott had snorted and then made some crack about chastity belts to which Gambit had calmly countered with "Now don' go gittin' all jealous, you're still my favorite girl." This earned him a proper grumble and a punch in the arm. He did not rile Scott. Not in the least. And he was glad. It was good to be able to joke and make innuendoes with someone that didn't end with him fighting off JP. Besides, there was something very agreeable about Scott. He was good. Down to his tighty-whities. And Remy envied him that goodness because it wasn't in him the same way that it was in Scott. He hadn't been afforded that luxury, but he was damn glad that someone had. They were like night and day, but they both followed Xavier's dream: Scott, for noble reasons; Remy, perhaps his reasons were also noble.

He considered that revelation for a moment. He was a thief. He had stolen jewels, artwork, intelligence…the list went on and on. But, there was something fundamentally appealing to him about Xavier's dreams of a peaceful coexistence between humans and mutants. Despite his eye rolls and snide remarks, the dream had given him something he hadn't felt in a long time: hope.

Granted, knowing that Rogue was off with Joe right at that exact moment certainly managed to bleed a little of it away.

Stopping at the end of a long corridor, he visualized the building's blue prints. His memory was extremely well developed—it paid to know all the ins and outs of a place before dedicating to it. He turned right and moved quietly to the end of the hall.

The door was metal but the lock was standard and he slipped his tools from his pockets once again. Instead of taking his time, he merely raked the pick across the pins, pushing them up and catching them on the ledge of the plug. He didn't open the door though. His eyes glowed and he inspected the top of the door closely. Wires ran from the hallway into the room. It was an internal surveillance system.

Gambit ran his tongue across his teeth in thought. His memory whirred into action, and he quickly ran through the building's plans. He hadn't brought any of his more technological toys with him so disrupting the feed and looping it on itself was out of the question. He could make it a smash and grab job but that would put the FOH members on a higher alert. That heightened awareness could mean outright attacks on mutants; he couldn't allow that. Besides, Xavier and Scott had specified the need for finesse. His subconscious alerted him to a possibility. He focused on the electrician's portion of the plans: the room was wired for a single overhead light—nothing fancy. All he had to do was buy himself a little bit of time…and hightail it out of there before the FOH became aware that any of the mutant registration information had disappeared.

He flipped his wrist and a playing card appeared like magic in his hand. He concentrated on the card, a familiar pull running through his body. He watched as the card began to glow with unspent kinetic energy. Carefully, he used it to slice into the plastic covers protecting the wires. He disrupted the charge, pulling the energy back into his body, and tucked the card into the hidden pockets within his sleeve.

He slid the plastic from the wires before using his powers once more. Touching the copper, he melted it, and easily broke the wires in half. He had to move quickly. The guards who were undoubtedly manning the monitors would be coming to check the camera, to see if something was indeed amiss. Replacing the plastic covers, he swept into the room and locked the door behind him. A single light hung from the ceiling and covered the room in a sickly yellow glow. Gingerly he reached up, swearing at the light bulb as it burned his fingers, and partially unscrewed it, plunging the room into darkness.

He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the blackness. He scanned the room quickly, his senses running on high as he moved toward the wall where several filing cabinets stood. He tried a drawer; it wasn't locked. He rolled his eyes and made a _tsk_ing sound. "Dey go to all de trouble of puttin' in a surveillance system an' don't even bot'er to lock de filing cabinets."

The sound of the key in the lock punctuated his thought.

There were no hiding places in the small square of a room and he had made a promise to Xavier that there would be no cause for the FOH to go on alarm. Diving behind the door as it opened, he braced his back to the wall and held his breath.

Light from the corridor pooled on the tile; the pulses from the fluorescent bulbs sent ripples through the dry puddles. And then they were broken. Gray shadows spilled into the light, disrupting the pools completely, bleeding them out of sight, out of existence. The shadow grew, pushing across the floor and onto the wall.

Remy watched from behind the door, his stomach knotting, his pulse hammering in his ear. He had promised not to do anything that would alert the Friends. He had promised… The door pushed into him, pinning him against the wall. Another shadow bled into the first.

"'S nuthin' but the light, Jimmy." Footsteps shuffled against the tiled floor. "You know where the lightbulbs are?"

Remy felt the door tremble. Through the slat by the wall, he watched as a young man leaned against the doorjamb, his shoulder cutting off Remy's view. He squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath.

"How the hell should I know?" The voice was deep. Remy felt the tremor from it move through the door; this must be Jimmy.

The first voice came again; it was directly in front of the door. "Well, aren't they in here?"

The door quivered, moved forward.

Two cards slid into his palm, and Remy opened his eyes, allowed himself to look into the grayness around him, allowed himself to break his promise to Xavier. The Friends would just have to go on alert…

"Oh, don't worry about it. When the morning shift arrives, we'll tell 'em it just went out. They can change the damn thing themselves. Now, c'mon, I don't want to miss anymore of the fight." 'Jimmy' pushed off the doorframe and stuck his thumb over his shoulder.

"Alright, alright." The door continued to move away from him. Remy held the cards up, ready to light them, ready to pounce on the witless flatscan.

The door closed.

The key twisted in the lock.

Remy breathed.

X

He curled his hands around the icy mug in front of him, feelings of guilt and resentment swimming toward him through an alcoholic haze. He was guilty of coveting another's woman and he resented her for putting him in that position. What did she see in Joseph that she didn't see in him? Why hadn't she visited him in the medlab? Why didn't she understand that not being around her was killing him? He huffed in frustration, deciding to pour more of the dark amber liquid over the fire burning in his stomach. Perhaps if he drank enough he could swim away from the inkling in his heart.

Long before coming back to the X-men, he had made a habit of this—escaping into the shadows away from the agony of real life. He understood the shadows; saw the need for the escape. He would lose himself in the eyes and lips and bodies of the night; each one nicely wrapped in leather or lace and painted to perfection. He would disappear into the music; letting it flow over him and through him so that his heartbeat began to mirror the thrumming of a base guitar. He would drown his memories in a pitcher or two (or three or four…); the alcohol made it easier to think…and to forget. He smirked at the irony.

Normally he drank bourbon. Hell, that wasn't right. Normally, he drowned in bourbon. It's slow burn with crisp wooden undertones reminded him of home, of the south. But tonight, tonight he didn't want to think of home because home had suddenly gone through a transformation in definition. Home was no longer a jazz club set back in the hidden alleyways of a sweltering city or a sunken tree in the bayou. It was still decidedly southern, of course, but now it had a different lilt to its voice—honey drips of sass and gentility mixed into wild chestnut tresses and swirling green-gray eyes. She was home. And the last thing he could think about tonight was her; especially since she was out with…_Joe_.

So, normally he drank bourbon, but not tonight. Tonight he was gonna get knock-down drunk off a beer tap. It made him more like the college crowd that surrounded him. Made him more invisible. Made him forget who he was and what he wanted. Made him…Lawd, was the mug empty already?

"_Chére_? Seems I gotta problem." He held his empty mug out to the person behind the bar.

The bartender—a lovely _fille_ with shoulder-length blonde hair and long sooty lashes—smiled suggestively at him; he returned with a slow grin and a wink. Taking his mug, she refilled it, running her tongue up the sides to catch the excess foam before it dripped on the wood, and placed it in front of him once more. Leaning down so he could get an eye-full of her ample cleavage, she winked at him. A silver chain slid in between her breasts and he dismissed a fleeting wonder to whether or not she wore a crucifix.

"_Merci_."

She smiled.

His breath hitched. Glittering green eyes stared back at him.

X

He spent the night staring into her eyes. Sweat trickled from her hairline down her cheek and a slick sheen had formed over her nakedness. He felt his skin slide over hers and he marveled at the softness. He dare not look away from her eyes, lest he lose his mirage.

The girl's lips parted to form an 'O'. He heard her gasp, felt her nails scratch down his back, saw her teeth set into her lip. Her back arched, sending her body to push against his, tightening as she gyrated into him. The shudder started in his lower back followed quickly by the wave of relief.

He bit at her, bruising her lips with the forcefulness—the urgency—of his kiss. Slipping his hands under her waist, he pulled her into him. He buried his face into her neck, squeezing his eyes closed and breathing in her skin—cigarettes, alcohol, and sweat, but no magnolias. The smell assaulted him and he could not pretend anymore. Rolling away from her, he kicked the covers from his naked body and ran a hand over his face before collecting his clothes from the floor.

"What's wrong, baby?" Probably from the Bronx.

"Nut'in', _chére_. Jus' gotta get goin'. Gotta work tomorrow."

She propped herself up on her elbows, not even bothering to cover her chest with her sheet. "Too bad." She reached into her nightstand and pulled out a cigarette. Lighting it, she enjoyed a slow drag. "Whose Rogue?"

His head jerked up involuntarily. "_Qui?_"

"Rogue. You called me that…coupla times. Is that who you're goin' home to?"

He smiled sadly and blew his bangs out of his eyes. "_Non_. I ain't goin' home to no one."

"Then what's the rush?." She pulled her legs beneath her, kneeling on her bed in front of him and draping her arms around his neck. Her eyes twinkled, "C'mon baby. We can do it again." She blew out a ring of smoke.

He cocked his head to one side, appearing to consider the proposal. "_Je suis désolé_, _chére,_ but I gotta go. I t'ink I done gone an' messed up my role model status 'nuff fer one night." He leaned down and plucked the cigarette from her mouth before planting a kiss on her lips. He enjoyed a slow draw and handed it back to her. "_Adieu_." He slipped through her window and disappeared into the night.

X

Powdered donuts were definitely better than chocolate ones. Besides, he considered, taking a swig of his coffee—his own particular configuration that was little more than a thick sludge of caffeine—they were better for dunking. With that, he plucked one of the sugary treats from its box and scooped up a healthy helping of sludge.

"Hank?"

He started at the sound of her voice, nearly dropping the precious donut on the floor. Turning, he saw her standing in the doorway of his office, her gloved hands twisting like a rubix cube in front of her. "Rogue, are you alright?" He shoveled the donut and sludge in his mouth quickly, eyes rolling back as the sweet mixture of sugar and caffeine pumped into his bloodstream. He silently wondered if there would ever be a way to allow intravenous caffeine consumption and decided to add that to his mental to-do list.

When she didn't answer, he opened an eye. She was still at the doorway and he realized that as much as her hands were fidgeting, her face wore a very intense look. He frowned; intense looks were never a good sign. They always meant that heavy discussion was necessary. Sadly, he packed up his donuts and set them within one of the drawers of his desk.

"Come in, Rogue," he dusted the powder from the fur around his lips and gestured to a nearby stool. "What's on your mind?"

She pulled the door closed behind her and moved to the stool. He watched as she stared at her hands and licked her lips, clearly either stalling or gathering her nerves, he decided and his mind wandered to the confections within his desk.

"Are you really going to be able to cure me?"

It came out in a hushed rush, one that reminded him of the beginnings of a waterfall. He looked at her then; her eyes were wide, fearful, but some thing else lay behind them…hope?

"No."

She looked like she might cry and he hurried with the rest of his answer.

"I can't 'cure' you Rogue, because there's nothing wrong with you. Being a mutant isn't a disease like cancer or AIDS. It's who you are, inasmuch as the fact that your eyes are green or that you're female. However, I do believe that you need help controlling your mutation. I hate to compare it to a sickness like depression, but in a way it is similar. I believe that the chemicals released in your brain at the moment of touch affect your particular mutation. The chemicals are misfiring, moving through your brain in an abnormal pattern. It's the same way with those who suffer from bi-polar depression." He swallowed, chose his words as carefully as possible. "I think that I can create a prescription for you that would help to control those patterns. The only issue that I am struggling with is whether or not it is ethical to create a drug that will suppress your mutation; I do not believe that it will give you the ability to turn your power on and off. Maybe in time we can train your brain to use the drugs to aid in that control, but as of right now…it won't be control, it will be a different form of suppression."

"Oh." She was looking at her hands again. She turned them over and under each other, her eyes staring but not really seeing. Licking her lips, she raised her face; a tear slid down her cheek. "But Ah won't have to wear these anymore?"

He offered a gentle smile and took her hands in his. "No. Not while the drugs are actively in your system."

Her body shook with something that was a cross between a giggle and a sob. "When do you think you'll have something?"

Hank turned to his desk, picked up a clipboard. "I think I've found the necessary component." He handed her the board. "The name of the drug is U0126. It was very controversial several years back. It was created to help aide those suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. It attached itself to memories in the amygdala—the area of your brain where fearful memories are stored—and wiped them out." He took the board back and replaced it on the desk. "It's scary, I know, but I believe with the right combination of other drugs, this could be the thing to help repress the memories of those you touch. I believe that if I'm able to suppress the memories of those you touch, you will be able to touch. I'll have to run some clinical exams, of course. Wouldn't want you to take it and go out and put people in comas." He smiled; it was lop-sided but not deep at all, more sad really.

She nodded, licked her lips. "Thanks Hank." Sliding off her stool, she moved toward the door.

Clearing his throat, Hank felt the courage move into his stomach. "Can I ask you something?"

She turned, waited.

"Why do you want this?"

Her eyebrows knotted in disbelief. "So Ah can touch. You know that."

He nodded, cleared his throat again. "Yes, I know that, but I guess I'm curious as to why you're worried about touching everyone when you can already touch the one person you want to."

Her body went rigid; she stared at him, her jaw twitching nervously.

_Yup_, he thought, _nailed that one right on the proverbial head._

"Ah gotta go." She turned on her heel, tossing her thanks over her shoulder. "Ah'll talk with ya later."

Shaking his head, Hank sighed. "Kids," he muttered. "Don't know what they want." He stuck out his bottom lip in query before amending his thought. "Don't know how to handle what they want." He let out a deep breath and rubbed his hands together greedily. "But I know!" Sliding open the bottom drawer in his desk, he snagged the box of donuts and flipped open the lid. Confectionary sugar dropped like snow on to his desk. He licked his lips, grabbed a donut, and dug it into his coffee.

X

He stood, yawning, in the professor's office, a cup of coffee steaming in his hands. Xavier and Scott were pouring over the contents of several manila folders that they had spread over the mahogany desk.

"Damn," Scott muttered, "they have information on hundreds of mutants. It's a wonder they haven't all been killed."

Xavier nodded, gesturing to a different folder. "There are over one thousand active members of the Friends of Humanity in New York City alone. Affiliate groups are popping up all over the United States. It might not be long before those mutants are killed." He steepled his fingers and leaned back in his leather chair. "Did you have any trouble procuring this information?"

Scott looked at Remy. "I was wondering that myself. We expected you back hours ago. Were the plans incorrect?"

The youngest man shrugged his shoulders before downing the rest of his caffeinated drink. "_Non_, ev'ryt'in' ran smoothly."

Scott raised an eyebrow. "Then where were you all night?"

"Around."

X

Hank had some nerve; she seethed as she stomped up the stairs to the women's dormitories. How dare he make the assumption that he knew what motivated her! She happened to want to touch lots of people! Her mind whirred into action as she desperately searched for a candidate. Well, of course, there was Joe. She raised her chin in silent victory. _Of course_ there was Joe. He was, after all, her boyfriend. He was smart, sweet…and he had offered to sacrifice part of himself in order to help her control her powers.

And Hank thought he was so smart.

She nodded to herself, triumphant in her denial. Joe was everything that Remy was not. For example…he was an _actual_ teacher. He didn't belittle his colleagues in front of his students. 'Course, Remy had apologized to her for that. Joe never antagonized her. In fact he was very pleasing…all the time. He didn't make her blood boil the way Remy did. She smiled. Remy could make her blood boil just by looking at her, and it didn't matter if she was mad at him.

She felt the tears behind her eyes. She knew Hank was right. She knew the way her heart raced whenever Remy was near. She knew how her skin felt under his caress. She knew… But that didn't make it right. Didn't make him the best choice. Joe loved her. Remy…well, she wasn't sure how he felt, but he could have any girl he wanted, so why would he choose her?

"Excuse me, but you are standing right in front of my door."

Rogue jolted back to reality at the sound of the Brit's voice. She looked up to see Betsy standing in front of her. The purple-haired beauty wore a superior look on her face as she looked down her nose at Rogue.

Rogue averted her eyes and mumbled an apology as she moved away from the door.

"It isn't decent to stand outside people's doorways." Betsy pushed past her.

"Betsy—" Rogue swallowed, and looked at her hands as the other woman turned to her. "Betsy, Ah—Ah was wonderin' if you knew where Remy was, seein' as how he's your boyfriend and all."

Betsy leaned against her door, arms crossed over her chest. "'Seein' as how' he is, why should I tell you?"

"He's my partner. Ah need to talk to him 'bout…partner stuff."

One side of Betsy's mouth hitched up in a sneer as she tipped her head back to look at the ceiling. "Well, let me think. The last time I saw him there were candles, jazz music, oh—and I was wearing one of those little lace numbers, but let me think…no, he didn't tell me where he'd be today. Sorry." She gave a cruel smile and disappeared into her room.

X

She felt hot tears pinching her eyes and wiped them away feeling foolish and wondering why she let Betsy get to her. Pushing open her bedroom door, she collapsed on Kitty's pink and white bedspread.

"Can I help you?" Kitty was busily tapping away on her laptop, her forehead wrinkled in concentration.

"Probably not." The answer was quiet, closed off.

Kitty didn't seem to notice, the keys continued to click under the pressure of her fingertips. "Access denied." She sucked in a breath. "Damn."

Rogue watched as the brunette cleared the page and began typing again.

"Ah haven't seen Remy today."

The fingers halted and big brown eyes turned to face her. "Rogue? I'm _kinda_ trying to hack into the FBI mainframe right now without using special software—thank you Professor—so could you come back later? I'm sorry that you haven't had your Remy-fix today, but this is top priority."

"You don't understand! I really need to talk to him. I even asked Betsy if she'd seen him."

"_Yluck_! You must be desperate, huh? Shit!" Kitty's fingers twitched; another 'access denied' sign flooded the monitor. Rubbing her hands together, she glanced up. "I saw him."

Rogue's eyes went wide and she sat straight up. "When?"

"This morning. He was coming out of the Prof.'s office. Looked like hell. Said he was goin' to bed."

Rogue felt her cheeks heat; she hid them behind her hands. "Strange that his girlfriend didn't know where he was."

"Oh, for goodness sake's, Rogue! He ran an individual OP all night. I doubt that he was worried about leaving you bread crumbs. In other words," she stared at her friend, "he wasn't out to get you."

"He could've come by and let me—let _someone—_know he was okay."

Kitty looked up then, her face was twisted, impossible for Rogue to read. "He did. The professor and Scott…and I guess I count as someone too. Oh, and he and Betsy broke up." She shook her head and chewed on her bottom lip. "If I was an FBI password, what would I be?"

It felt like her head had lightened. "What about Remy?"

"Rock the fuck on!" Kitty swiveled the laptop to face her friend. "Break out the champagne! I just done Shadowcat-ted the FBI!"

"What about Remy?" She repeated. Perhaps she had heard wrong.

Kitty sighed, annoyed that her friend didn't share in her excitement, and gathered her laptop carefully in her arms. "Grab that battery pack. I don't want to lose power when I move this thing. It'll be a real bitch to have to go through all of that again."

"Kitty, you're not answering my question."

"I know that. I'm ignoring you and your sudden creepiness."

Her mouth fell open and she stared in bewilderment at her friend. "What do ya mean 'sudden creepiness'?"

Kitty licked her lips thoughtfully. "You know, you're right…you've been creepy for a while." She nodded toward the door and steered down the hall, her laptop clutched possessively to her chest and Rogue trailing behind with the battery.

"Kitty, Ah refuse to go any further until ya explain to me what is going on."

The ponytail swung violently. "Negatory. We have to get this to the Professor immediately. This information could be life-threatening."

Rogue planted her feet and watched the cord lift away from her before pulling taut. Kitty shrieked, cradling her precious computer. "Are you out of your mind?! This is important! I'm talking prevent-the-next-world-war important! How can you be so…how _can_ you be so?"

"Ah want you to tell me what's happening. Betsy and Remy broke up?" She threw her hand into the air. "When? Why didn't he tell me? Ah thought we were friends! We were just—yesterday—and he didn't say a word to me."

Kitty shook her head. "Are you for real?" She yanked the battery pack from her friend's hands and shoved it between the computer and her chin. "This is important, Rogue!" She huffed, plowing her way toward the stairs, Rogue hot on her heels.

"He didn't say anything to me." Her voice was lower now, contemplative, and she felt her lip tremble. Why hadn't he told her? Then she froze, her hand gripping Kit's shoulder, her eyes wide with realization. "Joe. Yesterday…he was gonna tell me something and Joe cut him off." She swallowed. "Betsy made it sound like they were so in love."

Kitty rolled her eyes before shaking free of Rogue's hand. "Rogue, this information is going to require immediate missions. I really have to get—"

"How do you know they broke up?"

"What?"

"How do you know?"

"What does it matter?"

"It matters. What if your source is wrong? What if he's so in love with her he can't stand it?"

"Rogue," Kitty quieted her with a raised hand, "First off, he's in love with you as much as you are with him. Everyone in the entire mansion—except the both of you—knows that you like each other. Even Joe knows. Why do you think he's such an ass to Remy? Secondly, I never divulge my sources. I have my reputation to consider. And, thirdly, of course Betsy's not going to say they broke up. He kicked her out of his room." Kitty gave a wistful smile. "Pushed her out in nothing but a little white negligee. Should've seen the look on her face. Priceless. Wished I'd had my camera."

"Oh."

"Yeah. So, if you're so worried about who Remy loves, why don't you do something about it? Now, I gotta go help save the world. Bye."

X

His fingers curled around the handle of the glass balcony doors. Squinting his eyes, he peered into the attic apartment and smiled. Thick vines clung to the attic beams, running up to the full height of the ceiling and sweeping down like green curtains. Hanging plants covered the windows and large potted plants filled the floor. Ororo was truly a child of nature; he felt the warmth of appreciation and love spread across his chest. She had been one of his best friends for years and now, he sighed, he knew he worried her.

The door wasn't locked; it never was. Ororo hated to feel caged, a shared characteristic. He gently closed the door behind him, breathing in the smell of potting soil, rain, and nature. He moved silently, nothing betrayed his presence to her. He found her lying on the couch, a slender mocha-colored arm shielding her eyes from the last rays of light.

He smiled down at her; it was soft, real, and he ran a fingertip along the underside of her upper arm. She stirred, stretching her legs and twisting her body to the side. Her long hair spilled over her face and reminded him of moonbeams. He touched her again, his fingers sweeping from her shoulder to her elbow.

Her hand shot out, gripping him around the wrist. She jerked her head, sending an icy glare into his eyes. She relaxed a little when she saw him, grinning over her. Throwing his hand to the side, she turned back around, determined not to look at him.

"Can I help you?" Her voice held the intonation of an annoyed older sister and he loved her for it.

"Came to 'pologize."

She looked at him then, her brow laced above glowing blue eyes. "What?"

"Came to 'pologize. For bein' me." He smiled a dashing smile and leaned his hip against the side of the couch. "Did de job, t'ough. Wit' style."

"Is that code for you got caught?"

He frowned. "Very funny. And I don't 'get caught.' I get lonely. Speakin' o' which," he glanced around the living room. "Where's JP?"

"He went shopping with Jubilee."

"_Guh_. I'll have nightmares for a week. T'anks."

Ororo's smile faded to a frown. "Remy, what's going on with you?"

"Nuthin' wort' mentionin'."

X

The War Room was a technological gold mine. Flat screen monitors tiled the walls, each displaying newscasts and information concerning the status of mutant relations throughout the world. One corner of the room had a hidden wooden panel that, when opened, displayed medical and scientific breakthroughs for which NASA would give its collective left arm. Holographic projectors were anchored to the ceiling and pointed to the middle of the large circular table centered in the room. Leather bound chairs surrounded its perimeter but were rarely used. Most of the time, when the room was in use, the mutants were far too on edge to enjoy their comfort. This was one such time.

Xavier sat in his wheelchair, a slim laptop balanced on his knees. He nodded as his team began to file in. Beside him, stoic and serious, stood Scott, his arms folded across his chest, a worn expression on his face.

She entered, her eyes sweeping the room. Kitty waved at her and cautiously approached.

"Hey. Sorry I was so short with you." She shrugged. "I just—I _had_ to show Xavier what I found."

Rogue shook her head. "Don't worry 'bout it; Ah was being ridiculous." She glanced up as a group of people entered the room. Her heart sank.

"Oh, he's not here yet." Kitty was picking at her nails.

She winced. "Who?"

The brunette stopped and fixed her with a steady gaze that Rogue was sure saw right through her. "Remy."

"Oh." She couldn't hide the crestfallen look in her eyes.

Turning on her heel, Kitty gripped her friend's hand and pulled her to the opposite wall away from the prying ears and eyes of those entering the room. "What is going on with you?" She demanded, looking over her shoulder and then back at her friend. "You went totally ballistic earlier."

Rogue shook her head. "Ah don't know; Ah don't _know!_ " Sighing, she fiddled with the hem of her shirt. "Ah just…Oh, Ah don't know what."

"I think I do." Kitty's brown eyes captured hers. "You were mad that Remy didn't tell you that he and Betsy were over. See, here's the thing. What does that matter to you? You've been all but declaring your undying love for Joseph. You just went on a date with him _last night_. Whatever happened to 'he's the one'?" She stopped, folded her arms over her chest and added under her breath, "Not that I believed you for a second, but now you're mad because Remy's not falling all over you? What do you expect him to do when he thinks you're in love with Joe?"

"Ah don't know…Ah just…" She waved half-heartedly to Ororo as she walked through the door. "Ah just…" Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped.

Kitty raised an eyebrow before turning to the door. She did a double take. "Wow."

Rogue nodded, her mouth still agape.

X

If there was one thing Remy Lebeau could do well (besides…well…oh, the list was too long…), it was making an entrance. Dressed in a tight black shirt and dark blue jeans, he smirked as he felt the appreciative eyes of his teammates looking him up and down. He held Ororo's hand in his, despite her argument that such an act would only set the mansion's gossips into a tailspin. He had kissed her chastely on the lips and politely told her what he thought the gossips could do with themselves. It involved heads and asses and had been very explicit.

Scanning the room, he now wished he had listened to the weather goddess. Across the room, mouth hanging open, stood Rogue. She had a confused look on her face and was shaking her head slowly from the left to the right and back again. Beside her, an equally confused Kitty was mouthing the words, 'I didn't see that one coming.'

He locked eyes with her, reaching out with his empathy and flinching at the barrage of emotions that assaulted his senses: confusion, anger, hurt, and…disappointment? He felt his heart constrict; his brow knitted, but before he could move or think or speak, something collided with him.

"Sorry, Lebeau," Joseph put a steadying hand on his shoulder as he swept forward, moving toward Rogue and pulling her into an embrace.

Her eyes left his. He felt his heart tighten.

"I know, luv. It _is_ disgusting."

He turned, frowned at her. "Evenin', Betts."

She grinned up at him; it was tight and didn't reach her purple eyes. "Couldn't find a date for the 'impending doom' speech?" She looked pointedly over his shoulder at Ororo who was chatting with Hank. "Or is that you had your heart set on a date, but were otherwise shut down?" She returned her gaze to the couple standing across the room from them.

His jaw twitched in anger as he watched her saunter away. Turning, he focused his attention on a pair of green eyes that were noticeably looking everywhere but at him. Not for the first time, he wondered if perhaps he was fooling himself. His soul searching was cut short as he heard Xavier clear his throat.

"My fellow X-Men," the old man began, tiredness inking its way into his features, "I have grave news."

"When do you not?" He recoiled at Ororo's look. "What?"

She shook her head and pointedly returned her eyes to the professor.

Xavier cleared his throat. "Indeed. You make a good point, Gambit." The room bristled. Xavier was using working names, never a good sign. "It seems, based on information gathered from individual Ops ran by both Gambit and Shadowcat, that we have yet another power with which to be concerned. Last night, Gambit infiltrated a former government warehouse that is now run by private funds for the human supremacy group known as the Friends of Humanity."

As if on cue, the lights dimmed and the warehouse appeared in all its holographic glory in the middle of the table. Xavier continued, "This warehouse had in its possession a complete list, dating back from the MRA days, of all known mutants at that time. The list consisted of thousands of mutants who were threatened or misled into revealing themselves publicly. The list was compiled to provide the United States with a workable plan should any of them attempt to run a coup on the government. A list of mutants and their powers allowed the military to see what it was up against in a fight, and whether or not drastic measures would have to be considered."

Hank spoke up. "They were considering the possibility of a nuclear attack on United States' citizens? That's preposterous. Think of the loss of life—not only mutants but baseline humans as well. Surely, the government wouldn't go that far."

Xavier held up a hand. "I agree with you, Henry; it is preposterous, but we are not dealing with level-headed thinkers here. We are dealing with frightened, ignorant people—"

"Frightened, ign'ant people wit' a shitload of nukes." Gambit spat.

"Be that as it may, despite this list of known mutants, the Friends of Humanity have been relatively quiet. Mutants have not been targeted with excessive force or blatant racism as much as other groups have historically received when the population felt threatened. However," he pinched the bridge of his nose, "I fear that is about to change.

"Shadowcat…acquired…" Kitty grinned, "information from the FBI regarding the recent activities of the Friends of Humanity. Shadowcat?"

Kitty took the laptop from Xavier's lap and placed it on the table. Punching a few buttons, the holographic display of the warehouse dissipated and a map of the United States appeared before the ensemble. "See here?" She gestured to pinpoints of red dotting the landscape. "These are known mutants according to the information Gambit…borrowed…"

"Oh, _chaton_ (kitten), I didn't borrow nuthin', I swiped it fair and square."

The room chuckled, relieving the awkward tension building in each person. She stifled her laugh before tapping more keys. "And this," blue lights replaced the red, "this shows the known Friends of Humanity groups throughout the country. They've turned it into some sort of sick religious cult." She shook her head before typing once again. "This is a map showing both the high density population for the mutants and the Friends of Humanity." The map changed again.

Remy was beginning to despise the color purple.

X

The teams were decided, based upon abilities, teamwork, as well as the general locale of the targeted FOH branch. This mission was one of infiltration, a necessary evil with which all rules of protocol had to be followed, lest they find their teammates murdered in cold-blood.

Five major sectors were identified using a cross-referencing formula comparing the highest mutant populations and FOH membership per square mile. New York, of course, claimed the number one position.

"Great," Wolverine mumbled, breaking his silence for the first time since the briefing had begun, "we gotta live within a couple hours of the Bigot Capitol of the World." He dug into his jean jacket, producing a cigar. "What?" he challenged, seeing Cyclops' disgusted look. The reply never came and he shoved it into his mouth, a smile tugging at his lips. "Damn it, forgot my matches—hey, Gumbo, d'ya mind?"

Gambit's eyes gleamed before reaching over and tapping the end of the cigar. It flamed momentarily and Wolverine grunted his thanks before sending a fog of silver smoke floating through the room.

Cyclops shook his head, audibly sighing before turning back to the holographic map. "Emma and Bobby will be infiltrating this branch." Rogue felt herself stiffen; Gambit's eyes seemed to move involuntarily toward her. She forced her own down, concentrating on the purple areas of the map. "I spoke to him a little while ago and he assures me that he can get a pass from X-Corp; we're going to need all the help we can get. I'll be the liaison between the mansion and the New York team.

"The next target is in Los Angeles."

"What a shocker," Jubilee deadpanned.

Cyclops ignored her, his eyes focused on the computer monitor in front of him. "Northstar, you and Jubilee will run the infiltration; Storm, you'll be the mansion's go-between.

"Chicago comes next. Shadowcat, I know you'd like nothing more than to be sent here, but it's too risky since there's a chance just one person might know you; I'm sorry." He waited for the inclination of her head before continuing. "Piotr, you and Kurt, will infiltrate. Kurt, make sure you're image inducer is on at all times—these people are not messing around. Wolverine, you're the connection."

"Psylocke, Joseph—we really need an alias for you—you will be in Boston. Shadowcat will be the contact.

"Finally, that leaves…Atlanta." He looked up at the crowd around him, and steeled himself for the onslaught he knew was coming. "Rogue and Cannonball will run the mission; Gambit will monitor."

X

For his own part, he was rather surprised by the verbal barrage currently berating him. Scott Summers was used to the insults hurled at him by the likes of Wolverine, and at times, even Gambit; truthfully, he'd come to expect it, taking solace in the little inevitable things that life threw at him; however, he had to admit that the current hurler of said insults had thrown him completely off-balance.

"What the hell?!" Her eyes flashed dangerously, a deep red glowing on her cheeks, the suddenness of her outburst even catching herself off-guard. "Why are ya stickin' me with Cannonball?" Quickly, "No offense Sam."

The blonde man nodded his head hurriedly. "None taken, ma'am." His words were drowned out as Rogue continued her tirade.

"Ah'm just tryin' to understand why you wouldn't stick my partner with me in an undercover mission? What kind of crap leadership call is that? Here, get to know each other's ins and outs as fighters and teammates, but haha, don't work together when the potential for death is a bazillion times more plausible."

He held up his hands. "Rogue—"

"Don't you 'Rogue' me! It makes absolutely no sense!" She registered the hushed silence that had fallen on the room but she ignored it, her disappoint radiating from her regardless of her attempt to clamp down her mental shields. She felt a strong hand on her shoulder, steadying her; she turned, Joseph looked at her with confusion dulling his blue eyes. But she didn't care. She didn't care that it had been weeks since she and Gambit had worked together in the field—weeks since he had been shot and almost died…because of her.

Shrugging off Joe, she planted her hands on the table, staring Cyclops down. She felt self-conscious and she questioned it, questioned the anger beginning to boil in her stomach. Why was she so angry? Because, despite herself, despite the thrumming in her chest telling her that this was the best call for herself, for him, for everyone, she couldn't shake off the fact that she wanted him close to her. He would never let anything happen to her. She knew that. And she would do her best to make up for the last time. She _needed_ to make it up to him. And as much as she tried to convince herself that this was the reason for her anger, her heart pounded out its own silent mantra and she knew there was more.

"He's on your team!" Cyclops blurted, staring at her in confusion.

"Rogue," Xavier's even voice broke over the commotion. "Rogue, Gambit volunteered."

She didn't believe it. He liked the action too much. "What?" She turned to look at him, his eyes downcast. "That's not true. _Is_ that true?" He nodded, still not looking up.

"I think it is an excellent idea," Xavier continued. "Those acting as the teams' links will be required to do far more than those infiltrating. They will be leading their individual missions." He allowed himself a private smile and Rogue wondered if he had skimmed her thoughts when he began again, "Besides, I very much doubt that Gambit will manage to stay away from the action."

X

_OHMIGOD! OHMIGOD! OHMIGOD!_

She was trembling, weak. It irritated her.

_Get a grip, Rogue! Breathe! In. Out. In. Out. Come on! You do this everyday. Just breathe!_

To say she was embarrassed would be a prime example of under-exaggeration. She chewed her lip, replaying her outburst over and over again. Each time it got a teensy bit worse. How could she have been so stupid? At what point did she lose control of her faculties and let verbal diarrhea splatter from her mouth?

She winced as she thought about the faces of those watching her. Scott had been in shock. Absolute shock. Like he had no idea she could ever question his leadership. She pulled herself up, standing straighter, well, maybe he needed that little shake-up; he was getting far too full of himself in her opinion anyway. Logan's face had been subtler. An eyebrow had worked its way up; quirked in what she could only guess had been a mixture of amusement and curiosity. Joseph. Poor Joseph. She inwardly grimaced. He had just looked purely confused.

But Remy…

Remy hadn't looked at her at all.

And she didn't understand why.

And there was something else she didn't understand…

She didn't understand why she was standing outside his bedroom door, hand poised over the wood, ready to knock…

She drew in a deep breath, steadying herself for…she wasn't sure…disappointment? Setting her jaw, it sounded like the knock came from somewhere far away. No answer. Her brow knitted. Had he already left? Had she missed him? Swallowing, she dragged her knuckles across the wood once more. This time the door inched open, a sliver of blackness absorbed the light from the hallway and she wondered if she had disturbed his sleep.

"Rogue?" The way he said her name made her want to cry.

She must have looked like it because the door opened further and his eyes frantically searched her face as a hand went to her shoulder. "You okay, girl?"

_No. _

"Yeah. Fine. You?"

He studied her. Red pupils swam over blackened waters. She felt her skin tingle.

"Fine."

"Can…can Ah come in?" Was that her voice?

He started at that. She wondered why, it wouldn't be the first time she'd been in his room, but then realization hit her and she felt herself stiffen as well. He blew into his bangs as he ran his hand through them. It was then that she noticed he wasn't wearing a shirt.

Her eyes widened and she began to back away. "Ohmigod! You've got…company!"

"What? No!" He shook his head. "No, I just…come in." He grasped her wrist, pulling her toward him and pressing his hand into the small of her back as he led her into the room.

Her skin prickled at his touch and he immediately jerked his hand from her. Rubbing his palms on his jeans, he moved past her, his head shaking slightly.

_"Je suis desolé._ 'Bout de mess, I mean." He pulled at the covers curled at the foot of his bed. "Di'n't 'spect comp'ny." He moved away from his bed, pulling his trench coat from the back of his chair and thrusting a hanger through it. "Came in kind of late dis mornin'."

She nodded, unable to take her eyes from his form.

As he moved, she marveled at him. Perfectly sculpted muscles rippled beneath tanned skin. A light splatter of hair butterflied across his chest and peppered down his tight stomach. She wondered what it felt like, the contradicting textures of silky skin and coarse hair. Her eyes squeezed shut as warmth spread across her chest, burning through her heart and sinking into her stomach. There was a tingling behind the bridge of her nose.

She trembled. Whether it was fear or something else, she wasn't sure, but when she opened her eyes, he was staring at her with an unblinking gaze that made her feel like fire—flickering and furling in the wind, bare-boned and open to his scrutiny. Her breath hitched and she let out a low gasp. "R-Remy!"

And in an instant he was in front of her, lips crushing down upon her own, fiercely, tenderly, both at once. His fingertips skimmed her cheeks, urging her to stay with him but afraid that if he held on too hard she would shatter. His lips parted; she followed suit and moaned as his tongue slipped against her own. He moved his hands down to her shoulders and across her back; he pulled her into him, his touch, his kiss, growing urgent, greedy, as if he had gone without water in the desert for too long.

She responded, pushed her body against his, trying to become one with him. Without thinking, she stripped her gloves away, throwing them into the abyss that had surrounded them. She pressed them up his chest, tingles shooting up her arms as her fingertips touched his skin. She moved them farther up, tracing his jaw line, the stubble making her body grow weak, before wrapping them around the back of his head and twisting the thick mane of hair around her fingers, begging for his kiss to never end.

His hands were back to her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks so lightly that chills ran up and down her spine and she felt herself melting into him, becoming him. Her body ached for him. Ached for his touch. Ached for his whispers. No one had ever tried to kiss her like that. No one had ever looked at her like that. Not even Joseph…

_Joseph_.

Joseph thought he loved her.

She pulled away.

He looked at her, a frown pulling on the corners of his mouth. His thumbs still whispered against the softness of her cheeks. His brow creased and that sadness, that timid ness, from moments before crept back into his eyes. "Rogue?" He breathed, begged. She shook, tears threatening to take her sight; he was not a man who begged.

"Ah—Ah can't. Oh, Gawd, Remy…but Ah can't." With much effort, she moved away from him, her body slackening, turning against her, fighting to return to his touch, his embrace. "Ah—Joseph."

And he changed.

"Right. O' course." He stepped away from her, shoving his hands into his jeans' pockets. Staring at her, his lips parted slightly as he bit into his tongue. "Look…I gotta get ready to…" he ran a hand through his hair. "I'm goin' out."

"Right. Of course." She agreed nodding her head quickly. "Have a nice time." _Shut up. Shut up. Shut up! What am Ah gonna do? Oh, Gawd, please Remy, just tell me what to do. Tell me what to do._

"Yeah." He moved awkwardly toward the door, keeping his eyes downcast, refusing to look at her. "I'll see you later. For briefing." He added.

She let out a strangled sob. "Right."

He looked at her.

She bit her lip, capturing his gaze.

He looked away, quickly.

She died.

"G'night, Rogue."

"G'night, Remy."

She turned away from the door and moved slowly down the hall with a pair of eyes burning at her back.

* * *

Ohmigosh! It's been forever since I updated. I've been working on this chapter for a while. It's hard to type and edit and all of that while holding a baby though! Anyway, I'm happy to say that I finally was able to get this chapter done! I hope the next one doesn't take me as long. Cross your fingers! 

A note: U0126 is an actual component used in memory drugs. It's been tested on mice and apparently works. I don't know everything about it, just some articles I found on the web, but you are more than welcome to do your own research!

I want to thank everyone who reviewed: IndulgentWriter, Riauna, americanhottie33333, flaming-mod, mazdamiatta, Dawns Heart, batfan7, Elirrina, Kiana Epona, theKRITIC, DeadSparrow, Hotlips247, lovestoread, Serenearts, Doesn't Matter, Encuentrame, Coletterby, HopelessRomantic84, lee, warrior zoe, Rogue4787, mela, Ludi, FluidDegree, TheCocoaBean, Ms. Rogue LeBeau, RayneX, Andy1316, Burning Touch, Captain Annie, Southern Loner, Mercy P. Jones, cooltangerine, naemis, ishandahalf, Chica De Los Ojos Cafe, Freak87, vinh, Remy'sRose, and musagirl15. Thanks so much! I love hearing from you!

I also want to thank everyone who added Broken Road as a favorite!

So...

The X-Men are ready to undertake an infiltration into the Friends' network. What's going to happen to Remy and Rogue now? Will that kiss get in the way? How is Joe going to react to Rogue's outburst? What sort of sales did JP and Jubes find? What will happen if the Friends find out there are mutants in their ranks? I've chewed my nails down to nubs waiting to find out!

Anamarie


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Louisiana rain is falling just like tears

Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers, Louisiana Rain

She collapsed on the bed, disrupting the hundreds of printouts scattered across the comforter and sending them careening to the floor. Kitty looked up from her laptop, a disgruntled look marring her pretty face.

"What the hell woman!" She gathered the papers from the carpet, shuffling them together in a topsy-turvy order before stacking them next to her computer. "Honestly, Rogue. I'm trying to form a plan of attack here!" She looked at her friend then, her voice catching in her throat at the sight of Rogue's tears. "Ohmigod! What happened?"

"Oh, gawd, Kitty," she sniffled, her fingers swiping the tears away. "Ah don't know what's wrong with me."

Kitty cocked her head, her brow furrowing, "This is about Remy, isn't it?" Rogue averted her gaze and swallowed back the distinct taste of crap. Kitty sighed, "Don't you know what's wrong?"

She shook her head; her eyes darted every which way. "It's just that—it's complicated, Kitty."

"Yeah," she shrugged and leaned back onto her elbows. "Love usually is." She swept the papers away; they fluttered to the floor. "You went and saw him, didn't you? I mean—after that blow up during the meeting—I sort of expected it." She glanced at her fingernails, and then chewed a hangnail. "So…what happened?"

But Rogue was already shaking her head and covering her face with unsteady hands. "Oh, gawd, Ah don't know exactly…"

"Oh, c'mon Rogue…"

"He kissed me."

"What?"

"He kissed me, and Ah kissed him right back." She buried her head in her hands. "Ah don't know what's wrong with me. Ah mean, Ah just went out with Joe last night. And now this? What kind of a whore am Ah? Ah just—it's like Ah have no control when Ah'm around him. Like—Ah don't even know! Kitty, Ah don't know what to do!"

Kitty didn't answer. When Rogue looked up, the young woman was staring at her, her brown eyes unblinking. "So, he kissed you and you kissed him?" Rogue nodded. The brunette's face split into a smile. "How was it?"

"What?!" But she couldn't stop the blush from crawling into her cheeks. "Didn't you hear what Ah said? Ah was just out with Joe! He's in love with me! And then Ah go and kiss Remy? Do you understand what that makes me?"

"Human?"

"Ohmigod. It's like you're not normal."

Kitty grabbed her shoulders. "Oh! I just want to shake you! Do you have to have the charred remains before you'll believe there was actually a fire?! What is wrong with you? It doesn't matter that Joe's in love with you. You don't love him. You love Remy. Tell me you don't see it?"

She did see it. But that wasn't the point.

"Ah've betrayed Joe's trust." It was that easy; it was that simple, that cut-and-dry. She couldn't think about anything else. She couldn't remember the way his lips had felt on her own, couldn't dream about the way his fingers had tangled her hair and trailed so lightly, like butterfly kisses, down her back. She refused to think about the heat, the passion, the urgency with which he had kissed her, pulled her to him like she was part of him. Most of all, she couldn't—wouldn't—recall the way she had left him, the downcast eyes, the sadness, the pleading in his voice… But she'd never forget.

As long as she lived, she'd never forget.

X

Sometimes friends were more trouble than they were actually worth. This was the belief that Remy was currently entertaining. Ororo and JP hadn't spoken more than five sentences between them since they'd gotten in the car. He was beginning to feel a little like an ant under a magnifying glass. Any second now, he expected his head to be burnt off in a super-charged killer ray of sunlight. Not that he was paranoid, he assured himself, but if he didn't know any better, he could swear that his old friends were eyeing him like they were card-carrying members of the Mutant Mafia and he was a base-line human.

That being the case, it was time for a new tactic because the silent treatment was not working on them. He, on the other hand, was ready to divulge Logan's combination to his liquor cabinet, Xavier's habit of chewing his tongue when he was going to bluff, and that he had—on several occasions—slept with a stuffed yellow teddy bear named Mr. Bubbles. Yes, the silent treatment…tried and true.

Clearing his throat, he cast a sidelong glance at the passenger-seat. Ororo had won the coin toss and JP had sulked for several minutes before agreeing to get into the car. They had to promise that he could ride shotgun on the return trip.

"So."

Ororo raised an eyebrow. "So?"

"You two all right? You've been acting… You've been actin' weird."

"_We've_ been acting weird?" JP shoved himself into the small space between the driver and passenger seats. "Check the mirror, _mon ami_. The pot just called the kettle black."

He raised an eyebrow. "What are you talking about?"

Ororo elbowed JP, earning a hurt look as he rubbed his ribs. "We're just concerned. You're going to lead you're first mission ever. That's a big step."

He shrugged one shoulder. "I've done ran missions b'fore, 'Ro. In fact, most have been solos." He steered the car into a parking lot.

"_Ouí_, Remy, but in how many of those missions did you have a little green-eyed _fille_ with you?"

The brakes screeched. JP's aptitude to read him was beginning to show, and it pissed him off royally. He had always been able to bluff his way into and out of things and it bothered him that he was so transparent. That, coupled with the humiliation he had just suffered at her hands, albeit in private, was enough to make him snap. He gripped the steering wheel, knuckles turning stark white, until the urge to throttle his best friend disappeared.

"An' why would dat make a dif'rence?" His voice was low, bitter.

Ororo licked her lips. "You tell us. We did see your Danger Room session."

He deflated, his head resting against the wheel. A second later, his back was straight and a broad grin had replaced the thin-lined frown. It was like the previous feelings had never existed at all. "Whatcha t'ink? 't was magic, huh? Was partic'lary proud of de look on his face when dat car blew sky high."

She shook her head. "Remy—"

"_Non_," he stopped her. "Jus' let it go, Stormy. I have." He was out of the car and heading into the club before they could register his departure.

JP climbed into the driver's seat and watched Ororo closely. "You okay?"

"I don't understand, JP. What is going on with him?"

The smile was sad. "He's in love, 'Ro. He's in love and there isn't a damn thing he can do about it."

X

She had been on plenty of missions over the past few years since she had begun at Xavier's, but this one was different. Normally, anticipation coursed through her body, twisting her stomach into a lovely pretzel, but this time—this time, she was on fire. Her blood flamed, burning its path through her veins and scalding her cheeks to a brilliant pink hue. Her stomach felt like a grasshopper on acid; every shadow, movement, flinch set off an erratic pattern of sinking, jumping, twisting.

_That's what Ah am_, she thought miserably, turning down the corridor and trudging to the war room, _Ah'm the poster child for anxiety disorders—only instead of turning into a hysterical mess, Ah'll spontaneously combust_.

The room looked like hell. Haphazardly stacked piles of papers littered the table. Long copies in triplicate were laid against the wall and about the floor, a maze of report cards, accident reports, and other such nonsense necessary in running an accredited school. If she didn't know any better, she'd swear Scott was bringing his work—well, to his _other_ work.

Amid the permission slips and medication tabulation reports, she found the school's principal. He was busy scrutinizing a hard copy of the holographic map presented during the previous evening's briefing. She cleared her throat and he jumped, his free hand unconsciously flying to his visor.

He saw her and semi-relaxed. "Rogue."

Undoubtedly he was still sore about her outburst questioning his leadership skills. Good. She had been severely ticked off at the time. And now…perhaps he could be convinced to take her off the mission completely.

She glanced around the room. "This ain't the board room, you know. Ah think ya've crossed your professional life with ya're super-professional one."

He smiled. "That's what Remy said."

She bristled; she'd managed to avoid him all day, she sure didn't want their first meeting after their…she didn't want to face him in front of Scott, not today anyway. "Oh, yeah?" She hoped it sounded nonchalant but would settle for slightly anxious. It must have come off as more than slightly anything because Scott was leveling his gaze on her.

"Something going on?"

_Ah kissed Remy. Ah kissed 'em an' Ah liked it, an' Ah wanna kiss 'em again, but Ah got this boyfriend an' Ah don't wanna hurt him an' Ah got this huge problem because even though Ah'm technically with my boyfriend, Ah don't think Ah wanna be, Ah think wanna be with Remy instead!_

"Psshht. No. Why would ya think that?"

His brow cinched above his nose. He was worried. Well, yeah, sure…there was the little matter of the mission to prevent flatscan crazies from killing mutants. There was always _that_.

She managed a tight smile.

He stared at her for a very long time, probably trying to will the truth from her. Good luck with that, she hadn't even been truthful with herself.

"Where is," she cleared her throat, "where is Remy, by the way?"

Scott returned to his work, thumbing through files and scribbling random notes into the margin of his map. "He went upstairs to get me some coffee. If you go out the back way by Hank's lab, you can probably avoid him."

She let out a nervous giggle. "W-why would Ah want to avoid him?" Her voice raised an octave. Smooth, she was.

He looked at her again. "You tell me."

She stared at him, but his gaze didn't waver. At least, she didn't think it did. It was hard to tell through his visor.

"Hey Scott! Hope you like sludge! Hank hijacked de coffeepot!" Remy's voice with its southern honeyed lilts boomed down the corridor like a zydeco band on a Louisiana street corner.

She felt her heart throb in her chest. It's beat mirrored the sweet cadence of his language—southern-fried and thick as the Mississippi mud along the river's banks. And for a second she could feel the shallows sucking at her feet, the minnows nibbling on her toes. For a second, those same sweet sounding swells burst from the trumpets and banjos, lifting her up into the air and dragging her down to that street corner; their candied promises enticing her, capturing her, the way his kisses did. But it was only for a second. And then she remembered that she couldn't carry his tune on her lips…even if it played in her head.

"Um, Scott?" Panic. Panic that if she saw him, she'd love him all over again.

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, his eyes pointedly moving back to his work. "That way."

She mumbled something and bolted through the doorway.

Remy walked in, a steaming cup of coffee in each hand.

Scott cast a knowing glance at his friend as he accepted his cup. "What did you do?"

The cup froze halfway to his lips. "What de hell are ya talkin' 'bout, Scotty?"

"I'm talking about Rogue."

He didn't mean to spit coffee all over Scott's filing system but it was that or choke. Besides, he suspected that Scott might not hurry to perform the Heimlich.

Scott smiled. It was unnerving. "That's about what I figured."

"What?" His fingers curled into a fist.

"She was just here. Heard you were coming and bolted out the back door."

There was a sickening crack when his fist hit the wall.

"Better?"

He withdrew his hand, shook it out, and glanced at the indention in the wall. "Actually? _Ouí._"

"Good," Scott leaned over the pile of papers on his desk, his fingers lacing together in front of him. "So, what did you do?"

"Oh, you know," his voice turned bitter, "jus' fuckin' t'ings up as usual."

Scott nodded. "What exactly did you fuck?"

He watched as Remy shrugged. "It don' matter."

"Yeah, only here's the thing…We're getting prepared to run a huge infiltration mission in five major cities against a united human supremacy group with a fairly complete record of known mutants in and around each respective area. You and your 'thing' better have reached a working agreement or I'm pulling you." He sat back in his chair. "Is that clear?"

Remy's eyes glowed ominously. "Like fuckin' crystal." He drained his coffee and trashed the cup on his way out.

Scott sighed and returned to his map. A hissing sound met his ears and he glanced up. The explosion ripped through the air and scattered a multitude of papers, causing them to rain down over the room. Accident reports mixed with behavior reports, IEPs shuffled with medication sheets. Scott's sense of organization was pulverized. He stared at the burn mark where the trashcan had stood. "Damn it, Lebeau!"

The elevator doors closed on a smirking Remy.

X

A visit to the kitchen and he had all the information he had ever desired.

Jamie, a rambunctious twelve-year-old, divulged the recipe for believable fake puke, and then created clones of himself to disperse the puke about the mansion. Sam forced him to try a piece of his homemade fried chicken; he ate the other two pieces out of politeness. Jubilee provided the most pertinent data.

"Hey, Rems!" She beamed, pulling the refrigerator door open and grabbing a yogurt. "Have you seen Rogue today? She is ultra-nutty."

He sidled up to the firecracker. "Why you say dat, _p'tite_?"

She licked the foil top and tossed it under the sink. "She's up in her room being all twitchy and weird." She shoved a spoonful of strawberry yogurt into her mouth, her pink tongue licking her lips. "You know, Rems, I was thinking that maybe we could go see a movie or grab a bite. What do you say?"

"He already left, Jubes." Sam scooted across the bench, making space for his friend. "You had him at 'room.'"

X

He stood outside her door, his heart pounding in his ears. This was ridiculous. What was wrong with him? This was his friend, his partner and teammate, and he was acting like a virgin on sacrifice day. He cracked his knuckles before raking both hands through his long hair. Okay, so he had kissed her…twice. Big deal. He had kissed lots of women…more than lots…millions…okay, maybe not millions…but hundreds anyway. There was no reason for him to be apprehensive about talking with her. It had been a mistake, a spur of the moment, terrible, horrible, pleasant, and heart-stopping mistake. And he wished he could do it again.

He wished he could do it forever.

But that was impossible. She was with another man. He did not have the privilege of loving her; that belonged to Joseph. He had never been so envious of another man in all of his young life.

Steeling himself, he tapped a crooked finger on her door.

The door cracked open and a pair of brown eyes widened. He placed his palm against the wood, preventing her from closing it in his face.

"_Chaton_, I need t' speak wit' Rogue, _sil vous plait_."

She chewed on her lip, casting a guarded look over her shoulder. "She doesn't want to see you, Remy." Her voice was low. "I can't just _let_ you in here." She sent an appraising glance over his body. "But you're a pretty big guy…I'm thinkin' that if you _really_ wanted in here, there wouldn't be much standing in your way. Gosh, an' I'm not that strong…you could probably scoot right past me."

A grin split his face. "_Chaton_, you're a pretty great girl."

She smiled, her voice growing in volume. "Remy, look, she doesn't want to see you!"

He shoved past the brunette, closing the door behind him as he entered. His eyes flew instinctively to the gentle slopes of her face. She was standing at the foot of her bed, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and a paperback in her hand. Her eyes moved fleetingly to Kitty's face then back to his. She shifted under his gaze.

"Hi, Remy."

He did not break his stare. "Kit? I need t' talk t' Rogue. Alone."

Rogue's eyes widened. "Kit. Don' ya go nowhere." She warned.

Kitty blew into her bangs. "Rogue, you have to talk to him." She grabbed a jacket and purse from her desk. "I'll see you later." She sank into the floor, leaving them alone.

He sat down on the edge of Kitty's bed, his face somber as he looked up into her eyes. She watched him for a moment before sitting across from him on her bed, her gaze resting on the floor.

He cleared his throat. "So…"

"So." She countered.

"I t'ink we need to talk 'bout what happened last night." He licked his lips, chuckled dryly. "T'ink mebbe we need to talk 'bout de whole past month." He watched as she stiffened, her attention focusing on her fingers. She fiddled with a hangnail. "'Course dat can prob'ly wait 'till anot'er time."

She bit at the nail, her eyes low, refusing his.

"I'll go first." He announced dejectedly. "I shouldn't've kissed you. I'm sorry."

Her head jerked up, she searched his face. "You are?"

_Non_.

"Yeah. 'course." He cast a glance around the room. "Ain't never noticed how pink dis room is."

She snorted. "Ya're avoiding."

"Yeah, I am." He sighed. "I need us to be all right." _Please._ "I need us to be…friends." He moved from the bed to the floor and kneeled before her. He grasped her hand, his eyes never moving from her face. She felt the fresh tears threatening.

"'Course we're friends," she managed, her eyes memorizing his mouth. "Ah, Ah'm not mad at ya, Rem." She licked her lips; his breath caught.

Lids closed halfway over burning red pools. She felt her head lighten. She was swimming in his eyes, his thumb whispered over her knuckles, lulling her into a dreamlike state. She shuddered; his lips grazed the skin on the inside of her wrist.

"_Vous êtes belle_. (You are beautiful.)" He breathed, his fingers pushing away the white bangs framing her face_. "Vous êtes si belle._ (You are so beautiful.)" His face contorted, eyebrows cinching together, sadness creeping into his eyes. He placed his palm against her cheek; she leaned into it.

He swallowed, taking his hand away. A sob escaped her throat and he started. "_Chére_?"

She shook her head, hiding behind her hands. He peeled them away. His voice was husky as he spoke, "_M'écouter, petit l'un. Je suis dans l'amour avec vous_. (Listen to me, little one. I am in love with you.)"

Her mind was reeling. He loved her? But, that wasn't possible, was it? He was devastatingly handsome and had women like Betsy Braddock pining after him. He was sex incarnate. His insatiable appetite for skin considered legendary, according to the tales that Ororo and JP would tell. And he was in love with her? Did she dare to believe it? What if he was? What if he loved her with every fiber of his being? What would she do? She felt warmth stretching across her chest, a feeling that she had never experienced to this degree.

She froze. Joseph. The guilt, which had been plaguing her since the previous evening, was pushed to the forefront once more, and she struggled against it. It didn't matter if Remy loved her, it couldn't. She had a boyfriend. She had made a commitment to him. She owed it to him to be loyal; he had been patient with her. He had not abandoned her to find a woman he could touch. It didn't matter if Remy loved her. It didn't matter if she…

"Remy…" she shook her head, removing her hands from his, "Remy, Ah—Ah cain't—"

He pulled away, scrambling to his feet, his poker face shoved firmly in place. "'Course not." The poker face had cracks. He flexed his left hand, curling and uncurling his fingers into a fist. His right hand produced a cigarette and stuffed it between his lips. He tapped the butt, inhaling like the last bit of oxygen on the planet was hidden in that little stick. "_Me pardonner, mon chére, je suis juste idiot. j'ai interprété mal beaucoup de choses; ceci est un d'eux. Me pardonner. Je ne vous ennerrai plus._ (Pardon me, my dear, I'm just an idiot. I've misinterpreted many things; this is one of them. Forgive me. I will not bother you anymore.)"

"No!" She grabbed at his arms. "Ya're not botherin' me! Don't ever think that! It's just—it's complicated. Joseph's a good man, Remy. Ah cain't hurt him. He's in love with me."

His eyes burned. "Do you love 'im?"

Her heart sank into her stomach.

His finger caught her chin. He tilted it up, making it impossible to hide her eyes from his. His voice was soft as he asked, "Do you? No lies, Rogue."

She swallowed, a hesitation that she couldn't risk. "Yes."

He stopped. His hands loosened and fell from her shoulders. They hung like dead weight on either side of his body. He cocked his head to one side, sizing her up with his excruciating gaze. "You're lying." It was quiet. Honest. He stooped, placing a kiss on the top of her head. "_Adieu_." He wiped a thumb across her cheek, catching a tear, and then he was out the door.

She fell to the floor, weeping out the pain in her chest.

X

"Do you have any idea why I had you train with Rogue?"

Remy glanced up, setting his unusual eyes on Xavier's face. They glowed, but they were much duller than normal and the older gentleman felt a tug in his chest. He had never seen Remy as sad as he was in that moment. He briefly considered sending a telepathic tranquilizer to ease his pain but thought against it; Remy would not appreciate such an action; if anything, he would take offense to it.

Xavier cleared his throat; Remy had not answered his question. "I believed that you could help her, and I believed that she could return the favor. I still believe it—on both counts."

"Yeah, well," he shook his head. "Now Joe can help her."

"Is that what this is about?" Xavier stared at him. "You want to leave because she has a boyfriend and your pride is hurt--?"

"_Non_!" He was standing, palms placed firmly on the desk; Xavier shook off the feeling of _déjà vu_. "I wan' leave 'cause if dere's one t'ing I 'ave to do, it's self-preservation." His voice made the old man wince; it was so quiet, "Could you do it, _mon ami_?"

A defiant chin rose into the air. He was going to make him say it. Damn him.

"Could I do what, Monsieur Lebeau?"

He was through with the fuckin' spook anyway. He shook his head, cramming his hands into the pockets of his coat. "Know I got dat contract," he pulled a cigarette out and set it between his lips, his fingers twitched but he didn't light it. "How much t' buy me out of it?"

"It doesn't' work that way, Remy." He rubbed his eyes. "This isn't the kind of contract that will cost you your first born." He turned to the short filing cabinet set against one end of his desk and tugged it open. His fingers flipped through several manila folders before pulling out one.

"This is a request for a leave of absence—I am _not_ letting you out of your contract," he forced, seeing Remy's protest on the horizon. "I am, however, giving you a short leave during which you will have time to…do whatever it is you need to do." He pushed a long sheet of paper across the desk and handed over a pen. "This is a binding contract, Remy, that states if you try to run out on me, I have the _legal_ right to find your scrawny ass and bring you back."

He smirked at Xavier's words, his fondness for the old man evident in his face. "Dat a fact, bald one? An' how's ya gonna find me? 'm pretty good at disappearin'." It wasn't a boast, it was pure truth and Xavier knew it.

"Yes, I am aware of your talent for living on the edge of society's consciousness, but I have three things working in my favor."

A mighty bluff. He called.

"An' what would dey be?"

Xavier held up one finger. "Well, I have Cerebro, and I don't see you going any significant amount of time without using your powers, do you?" A second finger uncurled, "I've got the best tracking device in the world. You've met Wolverine, haven't you? And I'm fairly certain Ororo and JP would join in the hunt. But, most importantly," he held the three fingers close to Remy's face, "no man can live without his heart. If you truly love Rogue, nothing will prevent you from coming back." He tapped the paper. "Sign."

Red eyes blinked back at him. "_Merde_."

Xavier grinned. "So you see," he collected the paper and slid it into a folder with Remy's name on it, "even though I am disappointed in your leaving, I _know_ you will be back. Be it one way or another." He offered his hand, a look of sadness creeping into his blue eyes. "Are you going to let anyone know you are leaving or do I get the honor of informing JP and Ororo that the man they consider a brother skipped out on them?"

He cleared his throat and gripped the offered hand. It was his lifeline, his chance to turn back. A slow smile slid across his face and Xavier's shoulders visibly stooped, knowing the answer before it was even uttered. "_Bon_. I t'ink de news, it come better from you."

He shook his head but didn't push the issue. "When are you leaving?"

"'m already loaded up. Was goin' on dat mission, 'member? Don' bother stickin' no homin' device on my car, I'm gittin' a bike soon as I can. Don' wan' you tailin' some poor couple on vacation." He moved to the door, a question nagged at him. "Prof?"

"Yes, Remy?"

"You'll—" he breathed heavily through his nose. "You'll put someone good on her team? Someone what can protect her? Keep her safe?"

He blinked, nodded. "Yes, Remy."

"Swear it?"

His eyes were sad, almost frightened, and Xavier felt a push on his mental shields. Remy was projecting, an event so very un-Remy-like that the old man let curiosity get the better of him. He lowered his defenses.

His head snapped up and he stared into Remy's face in realization.

"I swear it, Remy. The best."

The smile hitched on one side. "_Bon_." And he was gone.

X

Kitty found her later that evening; she lay in a heap on the floor. "You okay?" She pulled her comforter off the bed and draped it over Rogue's shaking body.

She shook her head, gathering the pink fabric around her and clenching it in a tightened fist. "He said that he loves me."

Her friend nodded. "I know."

"Ah love him, too."

"I know."

"Ah didn't tell him though."

Silence.

"Ah can't do that to Joseph."

Nothing.

"It wouldn't be right. It hurts when you find out your boyfriend is in love with someone else. Ah can't hurt him. He's not done anything to deserve that." She looked up, her eyes falling on her friend. "Kit?"

Kitty's face was blotchy with tears.

Rogue shifted, grabbing her friend's arm. "Kitty? What's wrong?"

She managed a watery smile. "Remy left."

* * *

Look, can't we all just--oh shit! (ducks behind a desk as a beer bottle sails overhead) Let's not overreact! You're going to have to trust me! Ah, hell! Who brought the cow? Seriously? What are you going to do with--hit the dirt! (Cow sails overhead) That's it! I'm moving to a more urbanized locale! It'll be okay! It will! Just...please quit throwing things at me. And you! Step away from the ledge! It's not worth it! C'mon. Back away.

Seriously though. I know there's probably a...few :(...of you who are a little upset. And you have every right to be. I'm upset too! Who knew Remy was going to up and leave?! It's a little selfish of him, in my opinion. I mean, here they've got this huge mission that they're getting ready to run and he decides his pride is too hurt. Men.

Okay...I'm SO sorry that I didn't reply to reviews! I will work on that. Normally, I'm on top of things like that, but...I don't know...I just wasn't this time, and there's no excuse for it. I am sorry! I do want to thank everyone who reviewed. I love getting them and they really do help me. I really appreciate them. So...thank you for taking the time to let me know how you feel.

I know you're feeling upset right now...but Remy's Remy. Would you like him any other way?

So...

Who's going to take Remy's place during the mission? Will Remy come back? Will Rogue wake up and dump Joe? How can Hank drink that stuff? How will Remy's departure affect the mission? How is Hank's research into Rogue's mutation going? Will he create a viable drug therapy? Will Rogue take it? What did Xavier realize? Will Scott ever get those papers back in order? I can't wait to find out!

Anamarie


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

**I don't know how to fight, but I'll draw blood tonight  
If somebody tries hurting you**

**PLAIN WHITE T'S, ****Write You A Song**

He leaned back, his back curving against the green cushion of the chair, and pushed his legs out in front of him. The chair was ridiculously uncomfortable and he wondered exactly how much cushion its manufacturing company had bothered using. Judging by the stiffness in his muscles and the hard plastic against his lower back, he'd guess not much. He sighed, stretched his arms over his head, and slumped further down in the chair.

Airport terminals were high on his list of places to avoid. Ever since the Mutant Registration Act had been submarined in the senate—fuck you very much Senator Kelly—it was as if the freaks had decided to congregate in them. They were probably up to no good, after all, two or more of them always led to trouble. Bunch of damned terrorists, the lot of them, always trying to destroy all the good, honest normal folks.

And Hartsfield-Jackson International was by far the worst when it came to mutants. Because it was so large, he supposed, the odds of running into a mutant almost tripled. He sniffed, raising his nose against the indecency of it all. What was the world coming to? Or at the very least, America? Well, America wasn't going down without a fight. Not while he and his own were still able to draw breath. It was their God-given right to defend themselves—he ticked off the second amendment like a breath of air—one might even argue inalienable. And that was what the Friends of Humanity stood for. They believed in protecting humanity, in keeping the morals and ideals of normal humans before all the mutants could destroy them. The FoH was a ministry really, a beacon in the swirling waters of sin and damnation. It was their job to protect the real humans and to wipe the blight of mutants from the eye of God.

It was a noble job, one that all members took very seriously. So seriously, in fact, that when a prospective member was pinpointed, he was to follow them. The Friends only allowed certain people into their ranks—good stock…good, normal stock.

X

Samuel Guthrie liked to describe himself as an honest, open person. He came from a good family: they might not have had much, but they were good. His father was good; clean up until the day he died. He'd had a nice funeral in the local Baptist church—it was one of those strictly southern jobs with the white paint and steeple, nothing fancy; his father would have wanted it that way. Yeah, good, honest, plain Kentuckians, those were who he came from. Give you the shirt off their backs, and all you had to do was ask. Perhaps it was for that reason that he found undercover jobs to go against almost everything he was raised to believe.

Honesty, for example, was a big one. Wasn't it one of the Ten Commandments? Yeah, he was pretty sure it made God's 'Top Ten' list. And if it didn't? Well, it was probably number eleven. To hear his mama go on about it, you'd think it was the first one. That being said, truthfulness had always been one thing he prided himself on. And one thing that could end an undercover career faster'n a lightning bolt was the truth. Especially when dealing with bigoted jackasses. Come to think of it cussin' was another one of those things his mama went on and on about.

"Sam?"

If he hadn't been there to see it, he wouldn't have believed it.

Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but those darned forelocks fell free, ghostlike tendrils spilling from her crown and grazing the outer corners of her eyes. Her eyelashes, black and sooty, caught in her hair, and she blinked a moment before tucking the white strands behind her ears. Her cheeks were rosy, sun-kissed, and her mouth, the color of wine, was upturned in the biggest smile this side of the Mississippi. And she was wearing jeans with a green tank top, and he could see skin. Honest to goodness skin! No gloves. No long sleeves. Skin! Sun-burned to hell, but glowing with excitement.

His eyes popped out of their sockets. "Anna Marie?"

She laughed—it sounded like bells—then wrapped her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth.

He pulled her closer to him, his arms circling her waist with practiced ease. Then he grabbed her bags with one hand and slung the other over her shoulders, hugging her to his side. She kissed him again, her lips grazing his jaw, and he shuddered pleasantly from her feathery touch. "Let's go, hon," and he steered her toward the terminal's exit.

Hartsfield-Jackson was huge, and as one of the biggest airports internationally, Sam wasn't surprised that it took a better part of an hour to get back to his car. The walk wasn't too painful, though. Rogue kept her body right against him and they laughed and talked about nothing in particular. It was downright nice, if he was honest…which, he was.

When they got to his truck, he opened the door for her and then piled her luggage into the bed of the pick-up. When he climbed in beside her, he let out a breath.

"Lawd! Ah mean that was downright nerve-wracking!"

Rogue smiled. "You ain't kiddin'. How long has that tail been on ya?"

"The guy in the seat?" He blew out a puff of air. "'Bout two weeks. He's real intent on findin' out if Ah'm for real."

She grinned. "Ah think we were believable." She waited as Sam pulled the truck away from the parking garage. "So…how've you been?"

"Think Ah should be askin' you that. What a kiss!"

Laughing, "Well, Ah'm supposed to be your wife, right?"

He chuckled. "So, your powers? All under control now?"

"Hank figured out a prescription." She dug into her purse and pulled out a flat pill case. "Even disguised them as birth control."

Sam whistled. "That guy's a genius. Didn't take him too long, did it?"

"Well, Ah guess you've been gone 'bout a month…" She stopped, licked her lips, and shook it off. "How's our new liaison doing?"

He caught the change in her demeanor, heard the quiet sadness that leaked into her voice. It was subtle, camouflaged in its southern softness, and something told him not to point it out, not to challenge it. He glanced at her through the corner of his eye and sighed. "Lorna? Ah think she's fine. Needs to dye her hair though. These people are suspicious of anyone who's different. Ah don't think it matters if she's dyed her hair green or if it's natural. Either way, they consider her a freak."

"So much for southern hospitality."

X

He was good. The way he feigned interest in his newspaper, the way he slid down in his chair before standing and stretching and following them out—it was inspired. Really. He swirled through the crowd, his eyes low, never making contact with those around him, but keeping his mark in view. There was predatory curve to his shoulders; he kept them hunched, taut, ready to pounce with one wrong move.

Yes, he was good. Clean. Sterile. In a dirty sort of way. The way hospitals feel.

He followed the couple out, lagging behind by twenty or so feet. Close enough to keep his visual confirmation, but far enough that they wouldn't suspect him…and he wouldn't hear their conversation. Sometimes compromises had to be made.

The fun of it was the girl following him. She was better. Slipped between the sunlight and shadows like she belonged in both. She made it a point to let her body slide into others. It was more natural, more subtle. Dancing around people like they had the plague filed you away in their memory. Made them remember you, made them consider you…strange. Bumping into them during a particularly rushed moment…nothing out of the ordinary about that. Problem was…she bumped a little too often. And since she was attractive…men remembered her affectionately, and women with the tiniest hint of jealousy.

The bad black wig wouldn't help her either.

Then, there was him.

He dropped his cigarette and rubbed it into the cement. His smoking buddy looked at him expectantly.

"Charlie, I t'ink I forgot somethin' in my car."

The older man nodded and ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Yeah. That's the third time they've announced my mother-in-law's flight. Ah probably should go and git 'er." He mumbled, "The ol' bat makes me nervous."

The younger man chuckled, slapped him on the back, and held out a cigarette. "Have 'nother one. On me."

"Hey, thanks, man."

He tipped his head and disappeared into a passing crowd.

X

The thing about tailing…and really, the only thing about tailing…was not to get caught. It was important to find a way to hide in the open. People tended to call the cops on the man cowering in the begonias, but the one walking his dog around the block was usually overlooked. Both the man and the woman had that particular nuance down. He'd have to give them gold stars for their plain-sight hiding abilities, but after that…

And it had been hard on him. To stay tucked away when he saw her throw her arms around Sam…saw her kiss his lips…it had been murder. And when they passed him outside, it had been all he could do to keep shooting the shit with his new smokehole buddy—another important layer to hiding in the open. He had shoved that cigarette so far into his mouth; he almost wedged it clean into his lungs.

He wanted to punch Sam straight in his guts.

And he knew it was just a show.

He moved like honey—slow, careful. It was important not to rush too fast when following someone. That attracted too many people, not to mention the person being followed. The man had been slower, but too intent, too obvious with his movements. The woman wasn't as obvious, but moved too quickly. He sighed, pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a lighter. It really was an art. Every movement had to be thought out and manipulated to give the effect of nonchalance, of anonymity.

He smiled at a group of middle-aged women. They flushed under his attention and crumbled like giggling teen-age girls once he was past them.

He helped an older gentleman free his suitcase wheel from a grate.

He climbed into his car and waited as Sam and Rogue, followed by the man, and then the woman, drove past. Parking in a place that everyone had to drive by was another important aspect of tailing. And all that took was a little bit of luck. And an electric screwdriver. And a license plate with an overwhelming number of unpaid traffic tickets attached to it.

He'd have to get another one of those.

X

It occurred to her as she looked around the apartment that perhaps she had missed something in her briefing. The apartment was okay—a white building with each quarter's door opening to a courtyard. At least she got to see something besides pavement, she decided, and continued to stand in the doorway of the only bedroom in the apartment. A queen-sized bed was pushed against the wall to her left. A mountain of disheveled blankets were piled over a twisted sheet that coiled down one side to pool into a cotton puddle on the floor. On the wall across from the foot of the bed stood a beat-up looking dresser. The mirror had a crack in the upper right hand corner that had spidered; she counted her face twenty times. To her right were a walk-in closet and a bathroom. She licked her lips and decided to save that discovery for later.

Sam came up behind her, a sheepish grin on his face. "Ah know. One bedroom, right?"

She looked at him from over her shoulder. "Why is there only one?"

"Rogue, you gotta believe me. If'n Ah could afford a two bedroom, Ah would've gotten one."

"Didn't the professor send you with any money?"

He chuckled. "No, ma'am. Scott said that we had to maintain what our profiles could afford. I got a night job as a maintenance worker. But Ah checked out the crime reports."

She raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"No murders in the last couple of years in this area. But…if'n you go out at night, you might want to take some mace along with ya." He offered a flat grin. "Can't be too careful."

"Lovely."

"On the bright side—"

"There is one?"

"Ah work with two FoH members and they got me into the group pretty quick."

Her brow knitted. "Ah gotta tell ya, Sam. Ah've got some mixed feelings about that."

He nodded, his gaze dropping to his fingers. "Ah'll sleep on the couch. You don't gotta worry 'bout nuthin' but those assholes."

"Oh, it's not that, Sam." She leaned into the doorframe, and rubbed her eyes. "D'ya ever think," she stopped, sighed, and ran her tongue over her lips. "D'ya ever think that you're life did not turn out the way it was supposed to?"

"'Cause we're mutants, you mean?"

"Not just that. Just in general, ya know?"

He sucked in his lips and pushed them out again. "No," he admitted finally. His left shoulder hit the doorjamb, punctuating his admittance. "No, Ah think it's supposed to be this way." He suddenly became very interested in the carpet and dug the toe of his boot into the middle of a stain. "Ah believe God's got this master plan and even though we've got free will an' all, he pretty much helps to steer us in the direction we need to go. Sure, some of us disappoint him—we're human—but, Ah think that the good will always outweigh the bad and that we'll get to where He wants us. Jus' might take a little longer than was first projected." He allowed a little chuckle, "You know, like a mission."

They stood quietly for a few moments. He cleared his throat.

"Ah gotta get ready for work." He moved into the room toward the dresser, then stopped and turned to face her. "Ev'rythin' will work out in the end."

She raised her eyes and he saw the water swimming in the green pools. Her voice cracked a little when she asked, "How can you be sure?"

He looked at her; his gaze was unwavering. "Ya gotta have faith, Anna Marie."

X

One month.

It seemed like a lifetime.

He'd driven all over the states. Spent a weekend of debauchery down in N'awlins. Coasted the waves in California…skinny dipped with some stacked blonde. Had a private little rodeo of his own in Texas. It was his way after all; it was what everyone expected him to do. Right? Go out and fuck his brains out until the pain went away. It was what he did. He did it after Belle. Hell, he went to another continent to do it after Belle.

It helped, he told himself, it made the pain disappear. Numbed it. Dig into the scars enough and it becomes the norm. Like a sweater, stretched in the washer, the pain can't snap back, which means it can't hurt anymore. It reaches the limit and the only thing left is to throw it in the dryer and shrink it back.

And the girls? They were his dryer. His diversion to make the pain go away.

Only the damn thing didn't work properly.

Instead, each time, he saw green eyes and white bangs and wine-colored lips. And the pain intensified. The sweater stretched and stretched until the only thing left was a very unfashionable muumuu and a terrible ache in his chest.

So, he'd get up and go. Find another state, another girl. Hell, maybe three. And he'd find himself staring into three clones, each with those same green eyes and merlot lips.

When the sex didn't work, he'd drown himself in Wild Turkey and pass out in the back of his car. That backseat was the only reason he hadn't swapped it out for a Harley.

Only that didn't work either.

Just gave him one bitch of a hangover.

And a swirling dream of the one thing he was trying to escape.

He'd considered calling Xavier. But dammit he hated it when the old man was right. Reminded him of how powerful baldie actually was. And besides, he knew what was going on. He was going to be a key player in the infiltration before he left. Scott probably hated him. He did leave them in a lurch. And for what? Selfish reasons. And that made him anything but a hero. And he hated that, because he wanted to be a hero. But if he'd stayed…his heart just wouldn't have survived.

Something Scott understood.

And Stormy and JP?

They were probably pissed. But the cool thing about their family—even though it wasn't by blood—was that they'd love him. And he knew it.

But did she understand?

And he'd find himself trying to obliterate her from his mind. Fuck. Drink. Guilt. Repeat.

It had gotten to be such a vicious cycle that when he found himself in Atlanta a week earlier he wasn't sure what part of the circle had actually deposited him there. And to be perfectly honest, he didn't particularly care.

Took him a day to locate Sam. Took him ten seconds to spot the tail and another five to spot the tail's tail. Who he could only assume was his replacement. He really needed to speak with Scott and Xavier about the finer aspects of the invisible job. For starters, not to be seen. Which, he congratulated himself as he enjoyed a cigarette, he had yet to be.

Sam and Rogue had been in the apartment for a couple hours. He yawned, tapped the butt against his ashtray, and glanced at the clock. It was almost time for Mr. Guthrie to head to work. Which meant Mr. Smooth and the Invisible Girl would be following him. And Rogue would be alone.

X

Running a school was hard.

Running an infiltration op was harder.

Running both at the same time? Xavier popped four aspirin into his mouth and washed them down with a dry sherry. His head pounded—a sharp ache beginning at the base of his skull and curving over the top to imbed itself in his right eye. Maybe he should have tripled the recommended dose. Instead, he stuffed the pill bottle into a mahogany drawer and pushed it closed.

"Better?"

He looked up. Scott was leaning against the doorjamb.

"Not really."

"Well, I guess that's good in a way. What I've got to tell you would only make it hurt."

Xavier closed his eyes and sighed. "Maybe we've over-extended ourselves."

"It's too late for hindsight, sir. We're in it to win it now." Scott sat down in the armchair opposite Xavier's desk. His movements were slow, thought out, and Xavier knew he was trying to find a good way to word his news. It took him more than a moment. He stared dejectedly at his hands for a time, his fingers circling over the tops of his knuckles before clasping them together and turning them white under the pressure. "I just met with Logan in Columbus. He's seeing the same kind of M.O. in Chicago. Each prospective member is closely followed and then they go through ritualistic hazing. It's like trying to get into a college frat. Only the hazing is to see what you can stomach."

"How are Piotr and Kurt holding up?"

"Logan wouldn't say exactly. But as gentle as they both are, he said he doesn't think they'll be able to last."

"What kind of things are they having to handle?"

"Well, Emma—and you know how cold-hearted she can be—Bobby said she cried for an hour after the first time. He said that they watched the Friends pull a mutant into a room and beat him senseless. Then they hauled him off. They don't know what happened to him after that. Newly ordained members aren't given the keys of knowledge. They have to earn them. Guess how they do that."

Xavier grimaced.

"Pretty much."

He ran his hands over his face and head, "Oh, Scott, how can there be so much hate in the world? So much violent intolerance?" He poured himself another glass of sherry. Raising the crystal to his lips, he gave a sardonic chuckle. "Do you know what I think about sometimes? Sometimes, I wonder if God gave me this power to prevent that kind of thinking. If all I'm supposed to do is reach into their brains, mess about in them, and rearrange them a bit. And I could do it you know. I could—I have the power to prevent this. And to do that, all I would have to do is become the monster that they already believe I am."

"We're better than they think we are."

Xavier smiled—it was superficial—then took a sip of his sherry. The Amontillado felt dry on his tongue, and he swallowed with effort. "Don't you suppose we're frightening? People with powers? Only gods have powers." He twirled the crystal in his fingers; it refracted the light of his lamp and sent tiny rainbows skipping across the wooden surface of his desk. Setting down the stemware, he asked, "If you could have any power, Scott, any at all, what would you pick?"

He shook his head. "I don't know, sir."

"I would want to fly. It'd be a damned sight better than this." He tapped the heel of his hand against his wheelchair's armrest. "And it'd be a damned sight better than this." It was a whisper, but he punctuated it with a terrifying finality, tapping his index finger lightly against his temple.

Scott shifted in his seat, forced a laugh. "I suppose I wouldn't mind Jamie's powers. Think of all the work I could finish."

Xavier nodded, plucked up the crystal, and swallowed the rest of his drink. "Speaking of work," he began, his dark mood seemingly dissipated, "have you heard from Rogue?"

"Rogue landed safely at Hartsfield-Jackson; Lorna radioed in. Said Rogue gave quite a performance for their tail. Definitely looked like a homecoming to her."

"Good."

Scott cleared his throat and stood up. "You need to get some rest, Professor."

"There's too much happening for me to rest."

"I'll talk to Hank. Maybe he can give you something."

"When do you meet with the other liaisons?"

There was a sigh before he sat back down. "I meet with Kitty tomorrow. In Hartford. Then I fly to Tulsa to meet with 'Ro. After that, it's Memphis with Lorna."

"I'm sorry, Scott. I just—I don't want to lose anyone this time."

Scott's lower lip trembled and he squeezed his mouth closed. "Goodnight, sir." And he left.

Xavier sighed, his fingers rubbing the interior corners of his eyes and then moving up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Tugging open the drawer, he pulled out the pill bottle and swallowed two more aspirin.

X

She pulled the covers up to her chin and looked around the room. The apartment was unnervingly silent so every sound from the outside was magnified by two hundred percent. She heard a dog bark in the distance, heard the unmistakable wail of an ambulance, and she scrunched further down in the bed and covered her head. She felt like an imbecile; she was an X-Man dammit! She shouldn't be afraid of the dark. She kicked the covers away, her skin prickled and a chill skittered down her spine and she slumped against the headboard, pulling her knees to her chest.

It had been the same way at the Institute.

She hadn't slept well for a month.

She could lie to herself. Say that it was because the maniac she had absorbed gave her nightmares, or that with her friends off on a mission, she was overcome with worry. But the problem with lying to yourself was that you always knew the truth. Even if it was buried. Even if you were too damn prideful to admit it.

Remy left.

And she was still there. Still hanging on to Kitty's shoulder, her mind sifting the words, stretching them, shredding them, trying to understand…to fathom what her friend could actually mean, what code she was using.

Dumb.

Numb.

Umm…

Remy left.

Just like Cody.

Just like Bobby.

No…

It wasn't the same. And in a way she wished it was…that he was out there with another girl, with another love, and that he had torn her heart in two, that he had burned her, and not the other way around. The look in his eyes when he left…well, it haunted her, drove her to tears, to hatred.

He never should have…

He never should have told her.

Remy left.

She had asked when he'd be back.

Ororo had cried. JP had whispered curses in French. She knew what he said. Caught the gist of it anyway. Scott—Scott had spent a day in the Danger Room.

The professor had stared at her. Intense brown eyes boring through her with such strength that she was afraid he knew. And when he blinked, when he refocused those eyes on hers, she wasn't afraid anymore. She knew he knew.

She ran her hands over her face, swiping the sleep out of her eyes. Every night she tortured herself with what-if's and why-not's. What if she'd told him? Why not admit it to him? Who was she helping by lying, by pretending to be in love with another man? She wasn't helping herself. She wasn't helping Remy. And she sure as hell wasn't helping Joe. It was obvious and she knew it. But she didn't want to be like Cody or Bobby. She didn't want to hurt Joe the way that they had hurt her. And yet, she couldn't fault their logic once faced with the reality of staying with someone she didn't love when she could be with someone she did.

And understanding them…no, worse…agreeing with them…meant that they had done the right thing…and that was hard to stomach.

X

"If you can't keep your head, I'll submarine you and send you back to the Institute. Is that clear?" Ororo glared into her webcam.

The firecracker on her monitor snapped right back. "That's just fuckin' dandy, Storm. You get to bark orders and boss us around and you don't even have to see! You don't know what they do in there—"

"This is a mission. And if you are too juvenile to handle—"

"Juvenile?" Jubilee slammed down her fist; her image shook on the monitor. She stared at the split scene on her own computer, her eyes focusing on JP. "Tell her what we saw today! Tell her how much—" she faltered, swiped at her eyes, then swallowed. In a calmer voice—one that pumped ice through Ororo's veins, she continued, "Tell her how much blood there was." She pulled out her earpiece and switched off her camera.

Ororo's screen blinked, replacing the half-frame with a whole picture of JP. He was staring at his hands; his shoulders slumped forward. She licked her lips, brushed a stray hair from her forehead. "What happened today, JP?"

His jaw flexed and he pulled in a wine glass from outside the frame. "They have this room. It's like a fuckin' arena." He sipped, rolled the alcohol across his tongue, considered speaking again, and took another drink instead. Swallowing his second mouthful, he continued, "They dragged in—she had to be a child—and beat her." He stopped, his lip curled into a snarl. Downing the drink, he pulled a bottle into view and unplugged the cork. Taking a swig, he turned his usually bright eyes straight into the camera. "They sold raffle tickets to see who got to—" He stopped, swallowed, drank. "It was like a frickin' church bake sale." He looked at his monitor, stared at her, but didn't see her. "But do you know what the damnedest part was? We had to buy tickets or we would look suspicious." He shook his head, rubbed his fists into eyes, his voice cracked. "_Mon nombre n'a pas obtenu appelé_... (My number didn't get called…)"

"Oh my God."

"Send her home, Ororo."

"JP, I can't send you in there by yourself."

"Send her home." He stood up; she could see his shirttail. "She's no help to anyone."

And her screen went black.

X

She was less than a hundred feet away.

If he closed his eyes, if he reached out with his empathy, let its ethereal hand slide across the space between them, he could feel her. He wondered at that. Wondered how she would feel. Would the whispered caresses of his power be enough for him or would her spirit cajole him for more? He thought about that. Thought about her skin, how it would feel under his fingertips, how soft—it would slide like silk beneath… His fingers twitched and he dug into his glove box for a pack of cards. He had to stay busy…focused…or he would lose his sanity. The moonlight glinted off her window, catching his eye and drawing in his attention once more, and suddenly he couldn't stop himself.

It moved slowly at first, a silver sliver of mist curling in and around itself like a spring stretching and pulling away from its base, elongating power like a rubber band waiting to snap back. The curves straightened and picked up speed. He pushed it past the white wooden wall, past the door, past a too small living room and a non-existent breakfast nook.

He stopped outside a bedroom door.

He could feel her crying.

And suddenly he was there, taking shape within the silvery spring and pressing his ear against the door.

She was crying for him.

X

Scott scrubbed his hands down his face and ferociously rubbed his eyes before putting on his visor. There was a sound that he couldn't place and he shook the sleep from his head, scanning the room like he'd never seen it before. Red block numbers glared angrily at him and he slammed his fist on its buttons.

The noise didn't stop.

He punched at them again, but still nothing.

The noise was insistent, urgent even, and he ran a hand through his hair, still trying to shake the haziness out of his brain.

It was his phone.

He flipped it open, shoved it to his ear, and rolled back into bed. "It better be the end of the world," he grouched between yawns.

Kitty's voice was titanium. "It just might be."

He pulled himself up, leaning against his headboard, and switched on his bedside lamp. "What's wrong?"

"We're in fucking deep shit, that's what."

"Kit?"

"Look, I can't wait to talk to you and you're gonna want to meet with the others ASAP."

"What is it?"

"Joe and Betsy…they're gone."

X

He sat in his car, frozen. He tugged on the spring, pulled his empathy back, and reeled it into himself.

She was crying for him.

And he knew he should break down her door and pull her to him.

X

"What do you mean 'they're gone?'"

"Well, they're going."

"Oh my Go—" Scott pursed his lips to keep from screaming. "Don't ever scare me like that again."

"You don't understand," Kitty's voice was slowly creeping up an octave. "in a week the Friends are taking them to some sort of national convention. They have a freaking convention, Scott! Like presidential candidates!"

"Nobody else has reported anything. Maybe it's just Boston."

X

He knew he should go to her.

X

"They just found out at their chapter meeting this evening. Joe emailed me as soon as he got home. Apparently the big wig is going to be there."

X

What the hell would he say to her?

He swallowed, shook his head. No, it wasn't the right time. He hadn't actually sat down and planned what he would say. He didn't have a clear understanding of all the entrance and exit strategies needed in something like this.

And he didn't know what she would do.

And he really needed a drink.

X

Scott pulled on his robe. "These people have an actual individual leader?"

Kitty made some disgusted grunt and he could practically see the eye roll. "Oh, yeah. And I can't find a blessed piece of info on the guy. I've been to all ends of the World Wide Web. Either he's using an alias or he's gone to a lot of trouble to be invisible."

He was down the hall, rushing toward Xavier's chambers. "For pete's sake, Kit, give me his name. I'll run it against any information we have here."

Her voice dripped acid. "Creed. Graydon Creed."

X

Sam believed in America. Believed in freedom and liberty. He believed in the right to speak freely, to disagree with the government. He believed in his Rights as they were written in the Constitution and Amendments. He knew that he was protected from persecution, from blatant and furtive racism, and that, as an American, he had a social responsibility to report abuse of those laws, of those rights.

Unfortunately, that wouldn't have set too well with the whole infiltration part of the mission.

Which really sucked because he was dealing with racial sadists.

"Hey, Sam!"

Speak of the devil.

"Joe."

"Been waiting fer ya t' clock off. Ah've got awesome news." Joe clapped him on the back with one hand and dug into the pocket of his dirty jeans with the other. He pulled out a neon pink paper folded into little more than a wad and thrust it into Sam's hand. He grinned, lifted his red baseball cap and ran a hand through his ash blonde hair. "Go on, man, check it out."

Sam sighed. "Man, if it's another kegger, Ah told you, muh wife just got here an' Ah really want to spend some time with her."

Joe shook his head, swiped the paper and unfolded it himself. "Bring her with ya. The Friends want to meet her. Aren't you both applying for membership?"

The question was a punctuated with a raised eyebrow and a certain tilt of the mouth that made Sam's skin crawl. Predatory, that's what it was. And he was the hunk of meat.

"'Course she wants to join, but we ain't seen each other in a month."

Joe nodded and followed Sam to his pick-up. "And why was that again?"

That was one of the things about the Friends that he had to give them credit for. They were constantly checking and rechecking the story. If it wasn't down pat, they'd know and skin you alive for it. He jerked open the door. "Ah told you. She didn't want to leave the daycare center in a lurch. She's just like that."

Joe grinned. "Good girl."

"The best."

The grin broadened. "Then we'll see both of you tonight. The directions are on the paper."

X

"Perhaps it's a nom de plume." Hank offered as he set the computer to scan for the name Graydon Creed. "He wouldn't be the first."

Scott shook his head. "No, it's his real name. These people are blatantly racist toward mutants. Why would they bother hiding themselves?"

"For the same reason hate groups like the KKK wear hoods. There's power in anonymity." Hank wiped his spectacles on the hem of his labcoat. "Think about it, Scott. It allows for a false sense of security. If you don't know that guy over there is an enemy, you're far less likely to assume imminent danger."

"Anymore I think it's wise for mutants to assume it."

"That makes you just like the Friends. After meglomaniacs like Magneto can you truly blame the normal humans for being jumpy?" Hank pushed his glasses up on his nose and sighed. "Unfortunately we're all in the same boat, just different sides." He leaned toward the monitor. "I have a partial hit on the name."

Scott stood behind him. "Victor Creed? Could it be the same guy?"

"No. Creed is the legal name of a one Sabretooth."

"One of Magneto's cronies."

"Exactamundo."

X

The first thing he noticed was the unmistakable absence of the Friends' tail.

The second thing was the green sundress.

Rogue's hair was pulled back into a ponytail that twisted and tangled its way down to slap against those bare shoulder blades. She followed Sam toward their truck, her fingers tugging on the narrow straps that kept the dress in place. She seemed to be self-conscious of the bareness and placed a naked palm across each shoulder. A second later, and the ponytail was gone and shimmering locks spilled down, hiding her neck, her shoulders, from view.

His lips tugged down.

He waited as their truck pulled onto the road before he followed. It was easy. They weren't erratic or over-cautious. They didn't even know he was following.

They turned into the warehouse district on the outskirts of the central city. He turned down the following street.

X

"Are you in place?"

"Yeah. I don't know about this though, I feel exposed." Lorna Dane spoke into her headset as she pulled her green locks into a ponytail. She was kneeling on the roof of a brick building; the laptop in front of her showed several shots of one warehouse.

"You're fine. Is the equipment set up?" Scott's voice buzzed in her ear.

Checking the video feed, she let out a shaky breath. "Visual monitoring is up and running. You can watch from the Institute. We'll know soon enough if the audio is working."

Through the headset, Lorna heard the rapid clicking of a keyboard. "We're logging into the site. Visual is up."

She looked over the lip of the building. "I have a limo in sight. Confirmation?"

"We see it." Hank's voice answered.

The limo pulled into the parking lot of a gray metal building. Lorna watched silently as several men got out. Using the computer's video feed, she zoomed in on their faces.

"I don't recognize these men."

Scott's reply was wheezy. "It's fine."

She scanned their faces once more. "I'm serious. I've never seen them before."

One of the men leaned into the limo and reemerged with something in his hand. The sun bounced off the black metal.

"They've got weapons!" Lorna zoomed in on the .45. "We've got to abort. They're gonna kill them!"

"Calm down, Polaris. We can't pull out. There have been absolutely no signs that they are aware of anything."

"What do you mean 'no signs'? They've got a fucking gun!" She fumbled for her cell phone. "I'm gonna call Sam and tell him to turn around."

"No. Listen to me, if they fire, you can stop the bullet."

"Are you insane?!"

"You are Magneto's daughter. If he can do it, so can you."

"Do you know how fast—"

"You can do it. Is there metal around?"

"The whole warehouse is metal."

"If they attack. Stop the bullet. Then use the warehouse to block Sam and Rogue from sight. They'll be able to get away. You are their guardian angel. If they need you, intervene, but otherwise, keep down!" Scott was calm, calculated. "We need them in this group, Polaris. I've heard from Logan, Kitty, and Ororo. There's going to be some sort of national convention. I need to know if Sam and Rogue are going to be there as well."

"But the gun—"

"Welcome to the X-Men. Now deal with it."

X

Sam stopped the truck. In front of the warehouse was a limo; several men stood around it.

"They've got a gun."

He looked at Rogue. "Ah didn't see one."

She faced him, her hair falling around her face, shielding her cheeks from the waning sunlight. "Ah did. Could this be a trap?"

He chewed on his lips. "Gawd, Ah hope not." He rubbed his hands down his face. "Stay kinda behind me. If it is a trap, Ah want them to shoot at me. If Ah can fire up, it won't hurt me."

"What if you can't?"

He offered a crooked smile. "Then Ah'll probably be dead." He tilted his chin toward her door. "Let's go."

She pulled on the latch and pushed the door open. Stopping, she turned to look at him.

He froze his door in mid-swing. "What?"

Leaning in, she kissed him. It was quick, a feathery brush across his lips, and she pulled back, her lips smooshed into a flat line.

Sam's brow furrowed. "What was that for?"

"Ya're a good guy, Sam."

He nodded, licked his lips. "Ah'm an X-Man. Deep down, we're all good guys." He chewed on the inside of his mouth before adding, "Even the ones that aren't here." Pushing the door open the rest of the way, he slid off the leather bench seat. The gravel crunched beneath his boots.

Rogue's heart flittered in her chest and she felt the warm sting of tears threatening her behind her eyes. Swallowing, she climbed out and followed Sam to stand in front of the truck.

He gripped her hand in his and waved at the crowd. "Sure hope this ain't no lynching. Ah just don't think Ah'd look to good dangling from the end of a rope."

She let out a nervous chuckle. "You an' me both."

Sam scanned the crowd. "Ah don't know any of these men."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. Stay behind me."

The men were nondescript, hard to identify as individuals, each wearing the same black suit and white shirt as the next. Black sunglasses covered their eyes, hiding any spark of humanity behind those dark lenses. They stood tall, at attention almost, around a black limousine.

As Sam and Rogue approached, one of the men, a clean-shaven man with dark skin and dreadlocks approached them. In his hand was the gun Rogue had seen from a distance.

"Samson and Anna Marie Smith?"

Sam smiled, held out his hand, "Sure am."

The man ignored his gesture but shoved the gun into a holster under his jacket. "This way."

They followed him toward the black clad group. Stopping on the outskirts, the man turned to them again. "Stay here." He moved into the throng and tapped against the window of the limo. The door opened and two men climbed out.

The first was in his mid- to late-thirties. A mop of brown hair swooped around his head, falling with mock-innocence into his eyes. The second was blonde, older, and moved with a perpetual chip on his shoulder.

"Samson and Anna Marie?" The first one spoke, his voice was deep, but the pleasantness of it was put off by the fact that if he knew what they were, he'd probably kill them.

Sam nodded, swallowed. "That's us, sir. Um…where's Joe?"

The man smiled. "Back at the meeting. He told me all about you, Sam. I wanted to meet you in person."

The blonde man stared at Rogue. She smiled nervously back at him. His brow furrowed and he shook his head. She edged a little closer to Sam.

"Joe's a very loyal member to our cause. He believes you will make a fine addition to it as well. You two are the type of people we want. Hard-working, honest. You are what this country was built for, not those animals." He extended his hand. "Welcome to the Friends of Humanity, Sam…Anna Marie…We are honored to have you among our number."

Sam shook his hand, tipped his head. "Thank you, sir. The honor's ours. We just want this country to be here for our children. And it sure ain't headed that way."

The man grinned, slapped him on the back. "I am Graydon Creed," he put his hand on the blonde man's shoulder, "and this is my most trusted associate, Theodore Lane."

Theodore reached for her, grabbed her hand in his. His skin felt thick, heavy…hard, and his fingers crushed hers, pressed them into one another with the cold-blooded decisiveness needed to pull a trigger.

Somewhere in her brain, she screamed.

X

He watched from his perch on a neighboring warehouse. Across the way he could see a tornado of green hair flip in the evening wind. He shook his head, pressed his stomach into the warm metal rooftop and pulled a handheld computer from his trench coat. If he knew Scott, then the whole meeting would be broadcast via satellite right into the war room. He shook his head, his fingers flying across the miniature keys. A second later, and he had video. He shoved earphones into his ears and grinned at crunch of gravel. Even more importantly, he had sound.

He watched as Sam and Rogue left the safety of their truck.

He watched as the men vacated the limo.

His blood froze.

_His shoulder exploded. Blood, flesh, bone powdered through the air and damn it if he didn't breathe it in. Cold heat dug under his skin, tiny needles that worked their way through his shoulder and spilled out the other side in a puddle of molten metal. His knees buckled beneath him and the concrete jarred him on contact. His head cracked against the ground and for a scary second, he thought he might be dead. He rolled his head to one side. Rogue was standing against a brick wall, her hair wild curls down her back, and she was screaming._

_She was staring at him—unshed tears glittering despite the hazy air that surrounded them—and she pushed away from the bricks. He made his eyes flash, made her stop in her tracks. Made her press back into the safety of the wall with little more than sheer will._

_Straining, blood spilling down his arm, painting the white cement crimson; he stood and stared down the barrel of a gun._

_"That's right. Be a good little freak and I'll kill you quick."_

_He could break the little man with his pinky if they went hand to hand. Wouldn't even need his powers. But he was afraid. Afraid that he was really in trouble, afraid that this pathetic excuse for a man would find Rogue. Without thinking, he swept his eyes to hers._

_"What's wrong, gene-joke? Thinking about runnin'? You're not so big and bad when you can't use your powers, are you?" The man's eyes were hard. The wind swept in around him, pushing his yellow hair up around his head, like a halo._

_He stepped back, another unconscious glance to Rogue. "'Bout as confident as you are wit'out your gun, I reckon."_

_The man followed him, matching each step back with a step forward. He was so very near the wall, near to Rogue's hiding place. He felt the adrenaline run his heart faster. He was losing so much blood._

_"Why don't you come here, mutie? Can't believe you're scared of a little human."_

_He snorted. "I ain't scared of you, homme. I'm just not too keen on dat huge fuckin' canon you carryin' 'round wit' you." _

_Almost there. _

_When Rogue peeled off her glove, he couldn't help the smile. Another step and the man was down, foaming at the mouth, and crumpled like a paperdoll. And Rogue, her beautiful face, was constricted in pain._

Just like now.

The man from his nightmares was gripping her hand.

X

Theodore Lane was a first-class mutant-hater and right-hand man of the Friends of Humanity's president and founder, Graydon Creed. He was stoic, controlled, unemotional…most of the time. The only thing that pushed him over the edge, the only thing that caused him to lose his cool, was a mutant. He considered himself a knight, not unlike those gentlemen knights of the Round Table, whose prime adversary/cause was the blight of the homo superior's future in relation to homo sapiens.

One of his many duties was to supply mutants for the Purifications and Initiations held by the FOH throughout the year. He also sated Creed's hate with his own personal mutant menagerie. He never lost a mutant.

Until a few months ago.

It was a day that he relived every night in his dreams. And he fully intended to obliterate the blemish on his record.

And for some reason as he shook the young woman's hand, he steeled himself to do it soon.

She was pretty, he decided, but terribly shy. Something he hadn't expected. She seemed so wild at first, so spontaneously sexy, that he licked his lips. But there was something else…he felt as if…it was impossible…but he knew her. Some how, he knew her. Her skin made him prickle and made his hair curl with perspiration.

She was frightened by his outwardness and released his hand to cower behind her husband's shoulder. He watched her, and his brain sorted through his life…for some reason his memories had been hazy over the last few months. He imagined that the devil-eyed mutant had something to do with it.

He heard Creed explain about the Convention, heard him tell Sam that he would be helping with the last minute preparations, heard him explain that Atlanta was a perfect location for the event.

He watched as they left the group.

He watched as she reached out to touch her husband's arm.

He watched as they drove away.

_She reached out to touch her husband's arm…_

X

"Shit!" he raged, pulling a gun out from behind him. "I knew it!"

Creed turned to him. "What's wrong with you?"

Theodore's face was flushed with anger. "I knew I—"

The explosion knocked him off his feet. The Friends scattered like plastic army men across the ground, their bodies rolling across the pavement. From across the street, Lorna looked up.

"Oh, dear God—"

Scott hollered into her ear. "What the fuck was that?!"

Another explosion and the limo was little more than twisted black metal with designer rims. The men scurried about, dropping for cover behind whatever makeshift shelter they could find. From the roof of the neighboring warehouse came a brown blur. It somersaulted to the ground and flipped behind a nearby car.

The air resonated with the sound of rapid-fire and Lorna crumpled against the roof of her hiding place. Bullets pinged and pelted everywhere. She heard the ricochet of metal against cement. She shrank further down.

"They're shooting at him!"

"Lorna! We don't have a visual! The cameras are out of range. What is going on?!"

She peeked over the edge. A flash of magenta flew from behind the car and she watched as the side of the warehouse exploded with the contact. The earth trembled around her and swooning, she pressed herself back down.

"It's a mutant, sir. They're shooting at a mutant."

Scott swore. "Use your power to give him cover. He'll be able to get away then. Hurry!"

She swiped at her face with the back of her hands and swallowed. Peeking over, she squinted into the swirling dust and smoke. A wall shook and whined, and she peeled it back in her mind, like one would derobe a banana. She pulled it forward, and heard the sudden rush of air as no one dared to breathe, let alone fight. The wall screeched across the ground, and she balanced it with her power, successfully cutting off the two halves of the fight.

With one hand holding up the wall, she lowered herself to the ground with the other and ran to the mutant.

"C'mon! We've got to get out of here!"

He stood up, a sideways smile sliding across his handsome face. "T'anks, but I got it under control." He dug into the pockets of a worn trench coat and pulled out a deck of cards.

"Are you insane? This is no time for games."

He chuckled, it was deep and pleasant and she felt her brain tickle a little. "You're scared."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You had to read my mind to figure that out? What are you totally incapable of noticing the obvious? Now let's get the hell out of here. This wall is only going to work for so long before they decide to do something about it."

As if on cue, the gunfire opened up again. The mutant's head jerked up.

"I cain't. I got business here. An' now, I gotta cover for you."

"Look, I was only trying to help—"

He tipped his head, smiled, "_Mercí beaucoup._ Now get yourself an' your equipment outta here. Scott'll have you but good if you lose all that."

She blinked. "What? Did you say?"

He pulled a handful of cards from their box. They glowed magenta. "Hide."

She lifted from the ground, slipped back to her hiding place, and let the wall fall in front of him.

The impact jarred the Friends, and they fell to the ground. The mutant rushed in, his glowing arsenal flipping out from him at all angles, preventing the men from capturing him in their crosshairs. He stopped in front of Theodore Lane.

The blonde man snarled. "I should have known you'd be here."

The mutant grabbed him by the jacket, his hands glowing that ominous pink. "Next time, consult your psychic." He pushed him as hard as he could, and twisted away to land on the ground some feet away.

X

Lorna felt the building pitch underneath her and she rolled across the roof. The equipment followed her, sliding into the roof's lip and sparking against the impact. She scrambled for balance, fought to find her hands and knees again. Crawling back toward her perch, she froze at the sound of a single gunshot.

* * *

Hey! It's been such a long time. I hope that you haven't forgotten this story. I can honestly say that we are nearing the end. More or less.

I want to thank everyone who reviewed my last chapter. Thank you for the words of encouragement, as well as the constructive criticism. I appreciate all of the help. Also, thanks for adding Broken Road as a favorite story. I'm glad that you are enjoying it that much.

So, Gambit couldn't stay away, could he? Looks like the Professor was right about that. Too bad Rogue didn't get to see him. But after what Lorna heard, the question is whether or not any of us will ever see him again. The Friends are a pretty heinous group. Can the X-Men continue with this infiltration or will the violent acts against mutantkind make them lose their mind...or worse yet, their tempers? Will Jubilee continue? What's going to happen at the Atlanta Convention? Will Hank and Scott solve the mystery behind Graydon Creed's invisible past? Will I be able to update in a reasonable amount of time or will work, baby, and husband tag team me into writer's block? Stay tuned...


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

_**Here is a strange and bitter crop.**_

**Billie Holiday, ****Strange Fruit**

"Shit!" Scott slammed his fist against the computer console. "Lorna?! Get her back online!" His fingers flew across the keyboard. "I need a visual now!"

Hank hammered against the keys. "I got nothin'." Then, in a quieter voice, "She must have fried the circuitry."

Scott's cheeks flushed with anger at the world as he spat into the headset. "What are you talking about?"

"Dear God."

Scott grabbed his shoulder. "What are you talking about?"

X

Glass sparkled across the roof and dug into her skin. She could feel the warm trickle of blood spreading under her palms, but she couldn't move to look at them. She stayed there, on her hands and knees, shivering against the emptiness that now hung in the air around her. Her green hair had loosened from its ponytail and fell in front of her face. The shallow breaths she dared to breathe pushed a tangle forward and backward like a weakened pendulum. She counted the swings, frightened that she was counting the remaining seconds of her life.

Finally, there was sound again.

On the street below her, Lorna could hear the indistinct yelling of a mob. There were so many voices, so many different sounds, but they rose up together like the crescendo in an opera, and she knew instinctively what the loudness meant.

The mutant was no longer a threat.

And she couldn't help it any longer.

Silent tears still made her human.

X

The vein in Scott's head was angry.

Hank licked his lips and removed his glasses. "We just weren't properly equipped."

"Damn it!" Scott grabbed his chair and threw it against the far wall. "That's unacceptable! This isn't a game, Henry! Do I need to remind you that our friends—our family—are out there?"

Xavier raised his hand. "Scott—"

Hank was faster. "Don't you dare lecture me on what's at stake." He stood up, his chair visibly sighing against the release. "I'm not with a prioritizing problem."

Now Scott was fuming. "No, but you're supposed to be a genius. Why didn't you think to fix Lorna's equipment so her power wouldn't fry it?"

Blue eyes narrowed. "First of all. I am a genius. In genetics…not electronics. And second of all, you're the one in charge, oh fearless leader. Why didn't you do your homework and strategize all possible scenarios?"

"Because I thought you were handling the scientific aspects of this mission!"

"Boys—" Xavier was cut off again.

"'Scientific aspects'? Do you have any idea what I've been doing for the last month? You've had me working non-stop on Rogue's powers. I haven't left my lab for anything. Not food. Not sleep. I had Xavier install a lavatory down there."

"Big deal."

"Next to my lab table!!" He reached out; his hands curled into claws and quickly pulled his fingers into fists. "I have done nothing but work on Rogue's prescription. I've tried different calculations, different methods. I even let myself play guinea pig. And do you know what? I prayed it wouldn't work because at least then if she sucked out my psyche I could get a little sleep!

"And now you're accusing me of not being a team player—of not caring about my fellow X-Men. Fuck you, Slim." Hank ripped his headset from his ear and threw it against the wall. It fell into the middle of the twisted chair.

Scott ran his hands down and up his face, and then fisted his hands in his hair. He could feel it in his stomach; the anger broiled his guts and the fear filleted them. Shaking, he leaned over one of the computer monitors.

Xavier sat motionless, his elbow on the armrest, his fingers touching his lips. Two heartbeats passed. Three…four…five… "Now, if you're quite through. We need to contact Lorna through her car phone. If she doesn't reply in thirty minutes, alert Sam and Rogue. They need to be aware that she's been compromised. Give her the time though. We don't want to do anything rash that has the potential for destroying the mission." He pushed on his wheels. "Call me back in forty minutes for an update of the situation. We do what we have to and we make the best of the situation. No more finger pointing. We're all in this together."

X

"Nickel for your thoughts?"

Rogue glanced up, a smile pulling at her lips. "Ah thought it was a penny."

Sam shrugged. "Inflation."

Nodding, she allowed herself a chuckle. "Ah was just thinking that Ah was really scared back there."

He blew out a breath. "Me, too. I've never seen anyone with so much hate."

"Ah have. Theodore Lane was the man that attacked…shot Remy." She heard the harsh intake of air from across the cab of the pickup; she didn't look up. "Ah didn't think Ah'd ever see him again." She swiped at her eyes. "Ah thought Ah killed him, Ah held on so tight. Ah don't know how Ah'll be able to stand being around him. If you'd seen in his heart, Sam, you—" she shivered.

He put a hand on her shoulder. "Ah won't let him hurt you."

X

The glass crunched as she shifted her weight. She let out a slow, unsteady breath and inched closer to the roof's side. She'd heard the heavy treads of boots against the debris covering the road, but she still couldn't breathe. Her heart banged in her ears and she pressed a bloody palm against her chest, trying to muffle the telltale beating. Swallowing her breath, she crawled forward, tucked her hair behind her ears and glanced over the ledge.

No one was left. Concrete chunks and metal pretzels littered the road. The limo was a crumpled heap, covered in dust and debris. Blood was splattered across the terrain the way Pollack used a canvas. Dots and lines dripped crimson and red sprays freckled the dirty gray of the street. Using her mutation, she surrounded herself with a sphere of magnetic power and raised herself from the roof. Descending to the ground, she caught the distinct smell of death on the breeze and smashed a fist over her mouth and nose. Stifling the scream that was building in her stomach, she moved across the street, her motions shaky, foreign to her usually graceful gait. On the other side of the limo was a pool of blood.

She felt her breath freeze in her lungs.

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. She palmed her mouth; the metallic taste of blood seeped onto her lips. Gagging, she rose into the air and flew to her car.

X

"What does it feel like?"

She glanced up from her book. "What does what feel like?"

Sam dropped onto the couch beside her. "Control."

She closed her book. "Ah don't really have control, Sam; Ah have a pill."

"Yeah, how does that work exactly?"

"You'd have to ask Hank."

"Then Ah'd be no closer to understanding."

She giggled. "You're probably right." She let her body sink into the overstuffed cushions of the sofa. "Basically, he found this drug that suppresses the part of my brain that controls my memories. He added in some other drug that…well…Ah'm not completely sure exactly, but Ah think it has something to do with touch. Anyway, then he mixed them together and stuffed them into some little capsules and voila! Ah can touch."

Sam sucked on his teeth. "You're very good at dumbing down Hank's bio-babble."

Rogue shrugged. "It's one of my latent abilities."

"Clearly brought to the forefront due to the restraint on your primary power."

"Clearly."

He linked his fingers behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. "Just seemed kind of quick's'all." Turning to look at her face, he continued, "Sort of thought all that science stuff took forever. You know—every little speck of dust has to be investigated twice."

"Scott put an emphasis on getting it done ASAP. Ah needed it for the mission." She combed her fingers through her hair and tucked the wild strands behind an ear. "'Sides, except for the occasional test there wasn't anything to do but wait around and make sure you didn't piss off any mutant-hating vigilantes." She grinned. "Then Ah'd a had to save you."

"Were the vigilantes cute?"

"The farther south you get, the ornerier you get, huh?"

Sam grinned. "It's one of my latent abilities."

X

Scott's eyes pulsed beneath his visor; he really needed to do a ten-mile stare and relieve the ache in his eyeballs. His shoulders were hunched as he stood, rather leaned, against the desk. Licking his lips, he grunted the order again:

"One more time."

Hank nodded and punched in the number of Lorna's car phone. Sighing visibly, he pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head tiredly. "It's been more than forty minutes, Scott. We need to alert Sam and Rogue."

"We have to make absolutely sure that the mission's been compromised before we pull them out."

Holding his breath, Hank counted the rings.

One.

Two.

Three.

_Damn it._

Four.

_C'mon…_

Five.

The phone's steady rhythmn clicked off. A breathy voice squeaked, "Hello?"

Hank's brain whirred into action. "Lorna?! Thank God! Are you alright? What happened? Where are you? Do you need back up? Did the Friends—"

A sob stopped his verbal tirade. "Lorna?"

"Oh Hank." Her breathing was muffled like she had smashed a hand over her face. Three heartbeats and he could hear her again. "Something terrible…but I…I don't know what to do…didn't know you knew him…gunshots…when I looked…gone…" Her sobs picked up again and he heard her gulp air in between them.

Scott was practically standing over him by now and he shook his head. Covering the phone, he shook his head. "She's in shock."

Scott held out his hand; Hank handed him the phone. "Lorna," he began, his voice only wavering slightly from its normally neutral tone, "what happened?" He winced, and then added, "Without crying. You've got to pull it together and tell me what's going on. If I can't understand you, I can't help you."

Hank watched as Scott's cheeks turned ashen. "What is it? Scott? What happened?"

X

The alarm had been beeping at a steady rate of one beep per second for the last ten minutes. He had ignored it, stared it down, cussed at it, and finally, smashed it against the wall. For all the good it did. The damn thing was still going, just had a low-pitched moan added to the electronic beeps. He raised an eyelid and let the red digital numbers sear their message into his retinas.

It was 8:00.

Under normal circumstances he'd be up and about at this fairly early hour of the evening, but, as he often liked to remind himself, normal was a state of mind that he didn't visit too often any more.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Logan kicked the covers away from him and set his feet to the carpet. He'd had to change his sleeping patterns in order to keep better tabs on the Chicago chapter of the FoH. Seemed they liked to do their business deals at night. Shady ventures needed shade to grow. He gave a dark chuckle and scratched his bare chest. A metallic _pop!_ _pop! pop!_ sounded as he rolled his shoulders.

On his bedside table, his monitor pinged to life. He moved toward it, his eyes tracing the message on his screen. A second later and his phone hummed.

"Yeah?"

"Wolverine? Cyclops. You got my message?"

"Just now. Aren't you supposed to give me a five minute window?"

Cyclops' voice was robotic, and he didn't miss a beat. "How good is your nose?"

Logan felt his eyebrow rise. "Plenty good. Why?"

"How much time can pass and still allow for you to pick up scents?"

"What kind of scents?"

"Dead ones."

He gripped the phone so tight he heard it crunch. "I'll be ready in five minutes."

"Make it two, I'm flying this bucket in at Mach 5."

X

Scott closed his phone and slipped his hands back into the Blackbird's controls. Turning his head just barely, he caught a glimpse of Hank's curious blue gaze. "What?" He asked, his tiredness leaking out and making his voice sound the slightest bit sharp.

Hank shook his head and licked his lips. "What did Lorna say that made us jump on the jet and head to Chicago for Logan?"

"Don't worry about it—"

"Don't give me that shit. What happened?"

Scott gripped the steering controls so hard his hands shook. "Lorna said that the mutant knew us."

"In what way? Lots of mutants have heard of the X-Men."

"She said that he knew my name." Scott turned to face him at that. "Not my codename, Hank; my actual name."

Hank blew out a breath. "What did this mutant look like?"

"Lorna's hysterical. She couldn't give me an actual description, just that…" he paused, his knuckles aching against the strain of his grip on the controls. "Just that he used playing cards."

"Oh my stars and garters."

X

"Kitty?"

"Yeah, Joe."

"Betsy and I just received our information."

She grabbed a pen and paper. "Go ahead."

"The national convention's in Atlanta. Next week. We leave ahead of time for some special sort of initiation."

She gagged. "Special, huh? What the hell do they call those bloodfests you've been involved in?"

Joe's voice wavered slightly. "Practice."

X

Emma threw up in the toilet. Bobby looked away but kept rubbing circles against her back.

"Oh, God, Bobby," he heard her wheeze between heaves. "What are they going to have us doing in that initiation?"

He shook his head, the bile rising in his own throat. "Heaven help me, I don't know."

X

Ororo checked her communication site. JP's image glowed back at her in all of its pixeled glory.

"What's happening, JP?"

His face looked white and he leaned in close to his camera. "_J'ai mes ordres_. (I have my orders.)"

X

Logan blew a puff of cigar smoke into the breeze as the Blackbird landed in Millenium Park. The sky was dark; clouds hid the moon and thankfully gave the Bird a little extra cover. He rolled his neck and climbed up the ramp as it was lowered.

"Just got a call from Colossus. The Friends are helping him and Nightcrawler pack. Seems they're leaving for a special initiation in two days."

Hank looked back at him. "Where are they going?"

"Atlanta."

Scott's jaw clenched. "Well, that's convenient."

Logan enjoyed another slow draw on his cigar. "Why?"

Hank indicated the map on his screen with a tilt of his head. "Because, my dear sir, that's where we're going."

X

Sam hung up the phone. "Well, that's interesting."

Rogue looked up from the couch. "What?"

"That was Graydon Creed. He just informed me that the Friends are having something called a 'Purification' tomorrow morning. He said he wants me there front and center."

She shook her head. "You better call Lorna."

X

Her eyes darted about. She could feel the tremors throughout her body as she sat in her car across from what was left of the warehouse. Down the road somewhere someone turned and she saw the flash of headlights against the chrome bumpers of the mangled limo. The flash was gone and once again her world was plummeted into the darkness. The only light came from the sickly glow of a street lamp several yards away. She felt jerky, unsettled, and she swallowed back the foul taste of fear.

Lorna hated violence. Given her origins, that probably surprised people, but she abhorred the idea of killing in the name of superiority. Perhaps that was why she had willingly agreed to take on the role of go-between for the Atlanta section of the infiltration. Now, as she sat nervously in her car waiting for Scott and the others to arrive, she wondered if she had over-estimated herself.

A clicking sound started in her glove box and she smashed a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming.

So much for nerves of steel, she thought dismally, and opened the compartment to find her phone lit up and humming.

"Yes?" she squeaked.

"Lorna?" Sam's voice was honeydews and watermelons.

She breathed a sigh of relief and allowed her back to melt against the leather of her seat. "Yes."

"Lorna, we just got a call from the Friends. We're going to something called a 'Purification' tomorrow morning. We might need a little back up."

"Of course." She swallowed; her heart felt like it was pumping through her chest. "I'll let Scott know the news."

"Much obliged."

She breathed, pushed the air through her mouth like a Lamaze coach on crack, and shakily closed her phone. Glancing out the window, she felt the shudder skip down her spine. The warehouse—or rather, what was left of it—gave her the heebie jeebies and she was three gear shifts away from getting the hell out of there. She reached into the glove compartment once again and grabbed a pack of gum. Quickly, quietly, she unwrapped piece after piece and shoved them in her mouth until she was chomping away at a wad roughly the size of her tongue. She figured if she looked like a crazy person, it wouldn't be too far from the truth. Besides, the focus she had to maintain to physically chew that hunk of gum helped to take her mind off the way the yellow lamp glow elongated the shadows and illuminated the long stretches of blood spray. Almost.

Outside the wind was picking up and she squinted into the night sky. Lights had stopped above the road and were hanging, hovering over an empty stretch of ground. She could hear the jet engines wind down as the power was slowly lowered. The Blackbird descended to the cement in all of its grey-blue metallic glory.

Lorna grabbed a sandwich wrapper from the floorboard and spit the mass of gum into it. Suddenly, she could breathe again. The Calvary had arrived and now the big guns could take over and let her finally take a much needed anxiety pill.

The ramp opened. Scott, Hank, and Logan stepped out. They scanned the area, cautiousness etched into the lines of their faces and embedded behind the pupils of their eyes. Lorna opened her door and waved to them.

"Over here!"

The three men approached her. Logan, she realized, was sniffing the breeze.

"I don't know," he admitted to Scott. "The wind'll make it harder to identify any smells. I need something hard. Like something he might have touched."

"Lorna," Hank smiled, "are you okay?" When she nodded, he continued. "Can you help us with something? That mutant that you saw, can you think of anything he might of touched? Logan here is a whiz with the sense of smell and we think he might be able to identify him."

She shook her head. "Everything he touched seemed to explode." She felt her heart hammer in her ears, and she chewed on a fingernail. "Except…I don't know if it's his—I mean, I think it is—"

"What?" Scott was looking at her intently and she felt another shudder go down her back. She was certain that if she could see his eyes they would bore right through her—with or without optic beams.

"Here." She swallowed the lump in her throat and led the men to the limo. "Behind there." And she pointed into the shadows.

Logan looked at the drying pool of blood and covered his nose and mouth. "Yeah. Yeah. That's Gambit."

X

She blinked.

The darkness began to disrupt within itself—lines, shapes formed, and suddenly it wasn't just a never-ending sea of black—there were textures, shades, and she could distinguish between the emptiness and the full.

A large something loomed in front of her and she stretched her arms toward it until her fingertips grazed its surface. Laying her palms against it, she could feel the grainy mortar between rough bricks. It was a building.

Tipping her shoulder against the wall, she slid along, her hands reaching forward, constantly on lookout for any thing that might blend within the unclear lines of the darkness around her. Her shoulder was raw and she chewed on the inside of her mouth to keep from verbalizing the ache. The wall went on for a while. She followed against it, blinking her eyes, trying to get them better adjusted to the darkness. The wall turned; she felt the corner with her shoulder and inhaled sharply before turning with it.

And suddenly the lights came on.

She blinked; the brightness burned her retinas and caused tears to leak down her cheeks.

"I knew it was you."

God above, she hated that voice. It had haunted her nightmares for months. Turning, she found herself staring up the barrel of a shotgun.

Cold eyes set within Theodore Lane's hardened face glared back.

She stiffened and dug her fingers into the wall beside her. "Please…"

He didn't blink; his gaze went right through her. And she realized he wasn't looking at her.

She swiveled around and gagged on the tang of blood. Crumpled, bleeding, pleading…and those beautiful red and black eyes were looking straight at her…

"_M'écouter, petit l'un. Je suis dans l'amour avec vous_. (Listen to me, little one. I am in love with you.)"

"Demon! You and your kind can go straight to hell!"

And she heard the pull of the trigger.

Her eyes flew open. Her head was throbbing and she could feel wetness on her brow and down her cheeks. Instinctively, she touched her head and inspected her fingers for blood. None. It wasn't real. _It wasn't real_. Her heart was in her throat and she choked it down. Her breath came out in airy gasps and she twined her sheets about her fingers trying to hold on to something genuine. A drop of sweat trickled from her hairline and stung at the corner of her left eye. She rubbed her face against her pillow.

She turned to her back and stared up at the ceiling. Her head felt like an explosion that readily detonated itself every five seconds. Rubbing light circles into her temples, Rogue made the considerably questionable decision to get up and find a painkiller. She'd contemplated trying to out sleep the headache but her nightmare made her rethink sleep altogether.

Kicking off her sheets, she stood up. And sat right back down again.

Her skull was coming apart at its seams. She cradled her head in her hands and bit at her lip to keep from tearing up. It was just a stupid headache.

Standing up once more, she opened the door and stumbled into the apartment's tiny living room. Sam was asleep on the couch and she stopped for a heartbeat to look at him. He had a throw pillow lying over his face with an arm slung carelessly across the top of it. A rag of a blanket covered his legs to his ankles; his feet rested atop the opposite armrest. His chest was bare and milky in the glow from the television and she squinted her eyes as they adjusted to the strange lighting. She could make out the strong outlines of his abdominals, and he reminded her of the David the way his skin was illuminated in the light. She wondered if his skin felt like marble; if it was smooth and silken like she imagined the statue's form to feel.

And for a split second she considered moving to him, laying her palm—naked and shaking—against his skin. She wondered what he would do. Whether he would try to help her feel full again, complete again. Whether his eyes would glow when he looked at her. The way Remy's had in her dream…

She shook her head. It screamed against the indecency of the act and probably of her thoughts and graciously hammered her brain into submission. Wincing, Rogue moved to the kitchenette and found a bottle of aspirin. She popped two into her mouth, turned on the tap, and caught the stream of water in her mouth. Swallowing the pills, she glanced once more at Sam's sleeping form before moving back to the room and curling up into a ball on the bed.

X

Hank rubbed his eyes. "Okay, Lorna. One more time. After you spoke to Gambit, did you see or hear anything?"

Lorna sipped her coffee—the third one in ten minutes—and shook her head. "Just an explosion and then a gunshot." She set the cup on the dashboard. "I assumed the explosion was the mutant and well, the gunshot…"

"Was the end of the mutant," Hank finished for her. He nodded. "Yeah." He turned to look out the Blackbird's windshield. The warehouse district was dark except for the streetlamps spread across the way. The weak lights tormented the darkness, stretching it thin in places, but doing little more to disrupt the night. He turned the Blackbird's outer lights on hoping to get a more positive visual on Scott and Logan.

The two men were standing beside the remains of the limousine. Scott was tall, stiff, his chin up and his eyes tracing the tops of buildings. Hank knew what he was doing. He was hoping. He was hoping that all of Gambit's training and mischievousness would pay off with the younger man's life. He was hoping that if he scanned the horizon long enough, he'd see Gambit come bounding across the rooftops at high speed and swoop down low to land in a perfect stance fit for the Olympics. He knew, because he had done the same thing after the blood pool. Scott was just a little more stubborn with his hope. Hank figured that had to do with Jean.

Logan was different. He had his eyes to the ground, his nose to the wind. He was moving with the slow deliberate grace of a predator, his feet sidestepping rubble and shards until he was in front of where the blood pool was once more. Then, he disappeared behind the limo. A second later he was up again examining something in his open palm. He sniffed it, poked it with his free hand, and shook his head in an approving manner.

Hank had no idea what he was doing.

And Hank was okay with that.

Logan moved to Scott, his palm held out for the latter to see. Scott shook his head and they moved toward the Blackbird.

"Any sign of Gambit?" Lorna asked, pouring herself another cup of coffee.

Scott shook his head. "No. It's as if he got up and walked away."

"With that much blood loss, I can assure you, he didn't." Hank's mouth was set in a grim line. "And if he didn't walk away, why did they take him?"

"Maybe this is a reason." Logan proffered his hand. A small, bloodied gray thing sat in his palm.

Lorna leaned in. The air squeaked from her mouth faster than her hand could clamp down around it. "Is that…is that Gambit?"

"No." Logan dangled the thing from his fingers. It was a human ear. "This is somebody else."

X

The Purification was held just outside the city limits in a metal building on one of the member's land. The area actually consisted of several buildings. The largest—a windowless masterpiece with a dome-shaped roof—was the Purification site. It was an arena. The floor was a bowl shape that dug into the ground and gave extra height to the ceiling. Scaffolding that held countless stadium-type seating had been welded into place and secured against the walls. Platforms ran along the walls at the half-mark, and were covered with metal meshing. It reminded Rogue of an inside high school football arena. It just lacked the cheerful depictions of a fighting cartoon animal.

Sam gripped her hand and she gripped back with all the strength she could muster. Crowds swept past them; the individuals chortled, slapped each other on the back, excited about the day that lay out for them. She grazed against someone's elbow; her back went rigid with anxiety. The man turned, grinned, and held out his hand.

"Ya'll're new."

Sam smiled. Rogue thought he did a marvelous job of not vomiting. "Yeah. We just joined the ranks."

The man patted Sam's shoulder. "So this is your first Purification? Ah, hell, you're gonna love it. This is just about doin' the Lord's work. Making a difference in society and what not." He pointed toward one section of seating. "Ah'll be over there. Why don't ya'll come join me?"

Rogue looked at him. He wasn't much taller than she was, with suspenders holding his pants up around his large stomach. She was pretty sure she could take him if she had to. With or without her powers. She grinned and nodded at Sam. "Sure. Ah think that'll be fine."

Sam had pulled himself to his entire height and, she could tell, had also been sizing up the man. He clearly agreed with her analysis because he tipped his head in approval.

"Sounds like a plan."

They followed the man through the throng and across the bowl-shaped floor. As they reached the stairs, they heard their names.

"Samson! Anna Marie!"

Turning, they saw Graydon Creed approach them. Their new friend looked at them incredulously. "That's Mr. Creed. He knows you?"

Before they could reply, Creed was dropping his arms about their shoulders. "I'm so glad you could make it. I know that we've been secretive about our plans, but I'm happy to see that your devotion to our cause isn't interrupted by a lack of warning. Excellent to see." He led them away from the wide-eyed Samaritan and dropped his voice. "Unfortunately, I have some rather terrible news."

He didn't wait for them to ask. "After we met with you yesterday, we were attacked by a mutant."

"What?!" It wasn't an act; Rogue's voice was as surprised as she was. "When?"

"Right after you drove off. There were casualties." He stopped, his mouth curving down toward his chin. "Theodore was killed."

Sam shook his head. "Awful. He was a good member."

Creed nodded. "Yes. Well. You'll be happy to know that we got the mutant who did it." He chuckled, patted his hip. "Shot him myself."

Rogue felt her throat go dry. "Eye for an eye."

Creed glanced down at her. "Exactly. But we shouldn't have had to give ours up."

She nodded. "Ah couldn't agree more."

Creed stopped in front of some stairs. "Anna Marie, I have reserved a seat for you up there. It's my own private viewing box. Only a few of my closest associates have the honor."

She smiled. "Sam and Ah would—"

His mouth stretched into a thin smile. "Well, see, I have an ulterior motive for placing you there. I was rather hoping to borrow Sam."

'Borrow.' It sounded innocent enough, but if there was one thing being an X-Man had taught either of them, it was that separation of the team was a weakening ploy. Divide and conquer and take no prisoners. Rogue licked her lips and held a steady gaze with Sam. He smiled, but she could read his eyes like Xavier could read minds: _Be ready to pull out fast._

She tipped her head. "Of course you can borrow him. Just not for too long. Ah just got down here and Ah've missed havin' him 'round." She looked at her partner. "Have fun." _And be careful._

He stooped, kissed her clumsily on the lips, and followed Creed into the crowd. She climbed the stairs, kept her eyes trained on their retreating forms until they disappeared through a door across the way. Sighing, she moved into the box. A few people looked up from their seats and nodded at her. She managed a thin smile to each and dropped into a chair close to the rail.

She watched as the crowd began to thin, to pull themselves toward the seating and away from the bowled center. It took forever. She rolled her head, popping her neck, trying to release the tension she was storing. She glanced toward the door through which Sam had disappeared. It was covered by a piece of blue fabric now. Glancing at her watch, she guessed she'd been sitting for thirty minutes—give or take a few—and she was seriously beginning to wonder about the whole Purification experience. She wondered what it meant; the implications were frightening given the connotation of the word. To purify meant to make clean. To rid of imperfections. One guess what the imperfection was.

She investigated the room from her seat. The room was large, open. She looked up to the dome. Rafters and catwalks ran across the top, just below the curve of the ceiling. There was rope too, by the look of it, and she shivered.

The lights flashed. A deep voice announced that everyone should be off the floor. Music sounded, rumbling through the building's bowels, the steady thump, thump, thumping jostling her insides until she felt like she might puke. The lights dimmed until she couldn't see anything but darkness around her. She tensed herself, ready to leap, to fight, just in case.

A bright light exploded across the way and she blinked against the ethereal spark now inside her retina. The light turned, steered downward, spiraling through the air, illuminating faces, and places that the dark hid for its own selfish reasons until it came to stop on the middle of the bowl-shaped floor. In the center of the room, his face hidden under the brim of an absurd looking top hat stood Graydon Creed. He raised his head and the spotlight captured his sneer.

"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice boomed over the loud speakers. She wished she could rip out her eardrums. "We are at a crossroads."

The man next to her whooped and elbowed her in the ribs. She managed a weak nod and wondered where Sam had gone. Her attention was brought back to the floor as Graydon's words assaulted her again.

"We are under attack, my friends. Our entire existence is under attack. Mutants," his sneer deepened and she swore she saw the hatred shine in his eyes, "are threatening to over-run us, obliterate us—our world, our children. They are a cancer upon humanity. And what do we do with cancer, my friends?"

"Cut it out! Cut it out!" The chant raised the ceiling and she felt the stadium tremble beneath a thousand heavy footsteps.

He raised his hands, silencing the mindless throng. "It is time," he straightened the bowtie at his neck and tugged on his vest, "for the humans—the true sons and daughters of God—to take back our cities—" cheers erupted once again, "—our neighborhoods—" The man standing next to her was turning purple, forgetting to breathe between his whoops and whistles. "It is time to take back our lives!"

The screams reverberated around the room, pushed up in volume with the sound of stomping feet and rattling guards. She gripped the metal frame, its coolness the only thing grounding her. Her blood boiled, curdled in her veins and she forced herself to join in the celebration with the bigots surrounding her.

Creed beckoned for silence again and the room instantly stilled, each member seeking his guidance like he was humanity's messiah. She bit down on her lip, bracing herself against the verbal assault on the horizon. Instead, he extended his hand, eyes focused on a point below the box where she couldn't see. A beam of light cut through the shadows and illuminated a door.

Her stomach churned. Where was Sam? What was going on?

The door pushed open. Three men appeared, each holding a long strap in his hands. They struggled, dug their feet into the dirt, and pulled the leather taut. A fourth figure emerged from the shadows. Rogue crushed her fist over her mouth, watched them drag the person into the light, and she found herself praying, begging, Dear God, don't let it be Sam. When she saw the outline of a woman, Heaven help her, she was relieved.

The mutant's hands were bound behind her back and were connected with a belt that ran around her waist. The three leashes hooked to the belt and took away any leverage she might have had against them. She struggled, fighting against their lead, but they forced her to the center of the room. She stumbled, hitting the ground with her knees, only to be dragged like an animal through the dirt.

Rogue swallowed the bile in her throat. She leaned into the man beside her. "If'n she's a mutant, why don't she have any powers?"

He waved his hand at the question, clearly irritated that she would disturb his entertainment. "Ain't you ever been to one of these? Oh, that's right, you're new," he added, seeing her confusion. "See that metal collar-thing 'round her neck? That doo-hickey's called an inhibitor collar. Keeps the freaks from usin' their powers. Makes it fair—evens up the odds." It was all she could do not to point out the obvious. Three against one hardly seemed even. He took a swig of beer before leaning into her again. "This is mah favorite part."

Creed was circling the woman who stood about five feet tall. She was shaking, her clothing nothing but rags and by the frailness of her frame, Rogue was fairly certain the poor woman hadn't eaten in weeks. He forced his face inches from hers. She backed away and froze. One of the men was holding a gun to her back.

"Looks like a mutant." He purred and circled the other way like a lion scoping out his prey. "Smells like a mutant." He slammed his fist into her face; she hit the ground with a cry. He licked her blood from his knuckles. "Tastes like a mutant!"

The crowd went wild. "Must be a mutant!"

The three men pulled on their leashes, dragging her crying form across the earth. A crane was lowered from the ceiling. Rogue watched in horror as the men unclipped her hands from the belt and twisted them above her head to fasten them to the crane.

Creed's voice poisoned the air. "Do we accept this thing?"

"Hell no!" Came the answer.

"Do we turn our heads on the obliteration of our race?"

"Hell no!"

"Do we take back our lives?"

"Hell yes!"

Bottles, cans, sticks, bricks—projectiles of all shapes and sizes rained down from the seats, pummeling the young mutant. Rogue felt her outrage grow. How could such blatant racism exist? How could men like Graydon Creed thrive on such a petty reasoning for fear? She gripped the railing tighter, her fingernails cutting into the heels of her hands.

"How come ya're not throwin' nuthin'?" It was accusatory.

She eyed the human trash beside her with contempt. "Don't got nuthin'."

He handed her his beer.

She tilted her head, acknowledging his gift and choked back the bitter liquid. Saying a prayer for forgiveness, she hurled the bottle with all her might.

X

His muscles were taut, ready for action, and he was equally ready to fire up his power and haul ass to get out of that deathtrap. Instead, Sam smiled, and thanked Creed for holding the door open for him.

"Is everything alright, sir?"

Creed shook his head. "No, Sam, I'm afraid it isn't." He indicated another doorway with the tilt of his chin. "Theodore was with me for a very long time. He will be greatly missed." He opened the door and stepped through; Sam followed. Creed continued. "That mutant scum killed him." He stopped in front of yet another door. "I wanted you to see what we're up against. What these freaks have the power to do to us." He pushed through the door.

Inside the room was a table. On the table was…

Sam smashed his hand over his mouth. "Dear Lawd…"

Creed nodded, stepped toward the table and waved the flies away from the pile. "We didn't recover all of him. Just the biggest pieces." He stepped toward Sam. "I'm not trying to sicken you, son, but I want you to understand the utter necessity for what we do. We're not just protecting our rights as men, we're protecting our rights as the true inheritors of the Earth. We're saving the planet for our children's children. There is no room for doubt or hesitancy."

Sam nodded, his eyes still trained on Theodore's remains. "What a terrible way to go."

Creed nodded. "But not the worst." He paused, "It's ironic."

"How so?"

"Theodore's job was to collect mutants for events like this Purification. He was the best." Creed patted his shoulder. "Come with me."

They exited the room and he led Sam down a darkened hall. At the end of the corridor was another door. Sam watched as Creed pressed his palm into a panel beside the door. He heard the hissing of latches being released and the door opened.

The room was stark white. Hospital white. Against the far wall was a hospital bed. Wires, monitors, and tubes filled the space beside the bed and Sam had to lift his head up to see over them.

He froze.

Creed's face was pale, frightening, and when he grinned it was like Death was smiling from under his black shroud. "Tell me, Sam, have you ever read 'The Most Dangerous Game'?"

* * *

Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter and who favorited the story! I appreciate it!

So...

What is Creed hinting at? What did Sam see in that room? Will Logan find any other body parts? How will Rogue handle the news that Remy was hurt? How will Ororo and JP handle the news that Remy's MIA? What happens to people that drink as much coffee as Lorna? Is that safe? Is that going to stunt her growth? Can Atlanta handle that many X-Men? Can the X-Men handle that many X-Men? We are so very close to the end...please don't give up now!!!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to take a shower. Writing about that much hate makes me feel dirty. And not in the Romy way. Just dirty. Like I need to scrub my brain out with soap.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

_**The thunder rolls…**_

**Garth Brooks, ****The Thunder Rolls**

"What do you think?"

Lorna eyed the warehouse with distaste. "Have you ever wondered the purpose of warehouse districts? I mean, in the movies the warehouse district is always vacant and is a cesspool for indecency."

Logan chuckled. "Well, let's see if art really does imitate life." He extended the adamantium claws on one hand. Slicing around the locked doorknob, he pushed open the remainder of the door and called, "Anyone home?"

The inside was large and spacious. And empty.

Lorna shook her head as she stepped into the musty indoors. "Wasteful."

Logan nodded. "It'll do." Then, into his comm. link, "Bring 'er round, Cyke. We found a hidey hole." He glanced at Lorna. "Can you handle this?"

She rolled her eyes. "Please. You're not the only one who knows how to rip things apart." Lifting her hands, Lorna extended her magnetic powers up to the ceiling. Carefully, she pulled out the screws that held the metal roofing in place. She snorted under the weight, and blew her bangs away from her forehead. The structure whined. She pushed the ceiling up, her arms drooping from the massiveness. Blowing out air, she formed a magnetic sphere around herself and used the earth's magnetic abilities to lift herself up toward the roof. The closer she got, the more the ceiling repelled, until she was well above the empty warehouse.

The Blackbird lowered.

Lorna followed.

Logan whistled as she set the roof back on its haunches and replaced the screws. "If this hero thing don't work out, we can always work demolition."

X

It was bright.

A dazzling sheet of white, the light spilled over and around him. He could feel the warmth emitting from it, could feel the way it rubbed across his skin. He grasped it in his hands, the feathery weight sliding through his fingers like silk. It folded around him, tucking under his arms, body, legs, wrapping him up the way a mother wraps an infant. He felt safe, secure, and warm.

The brightness shuddered, burst into white hotness, and he winced against the intensity. His hands, pinned to his sides with the softness, wriggled beside him until he loosened the restraints and shielded his eyes. Bright lights had always bothered him; his mutation caused his eyes to be light sensitive. During those nights when he was prowling across rooftops, they had never caused a problem, but now the brightness pierced into his retinas like red-hot pokers and he felt tears slide down his cheeks. And he felt so warm…

He grunted as another explosion of brightness cut into his eyes; he felt blind, insecure…lost… He swiped at the tears spilling down his face. Trying to see where he was, what sort of hellish terrain he had ended at, he cracked his eyes a fraction. The light was too much, and he instantly closed them again and threw out his arms. He felt foolish, uncontrolled, as he flailed about, his fingertips yearning to connect with something…anything…that might give him a clue to where he was. The space around him was completely void of anything but that warm, white softness.

He fisted the light, curled it about his fingers, and dug his toes into it. He stretched it, smoothed it, but he couldn't get away from it. Sweat was beginning to form on his palms and he ran them down his legs. The warmth had talons in his stomach and he felt it dig into his guts, twisting like a hawk's lazy dance. It spread, moving through his stomach into his chest and slowly to his extremities, spiraling through his veins, pumping heat instead of blood and he wondered if he was dry and heat was all that was left of him.

It intensified.

And once again he was wincing, biting down on his tongue to keep from screaming like a scared child.

It began to throb, to move in waves through his body, lapping against his fingers and toes as each swell began deep within his chest. Perhaps his heart had finally exploded, and he felt his lips curve into a small smile. Poetic justice was a bitch after all. But the swells, the rhythmic waves matched another beating and he was certain that it came from the one organ he had decidedly poor control over. And yet, the warmth was trying to match that very pulse.

He moaned, he thought, and strained his ears, shaking them free of the whiteness and focusing all of his attention on that particular sense. Nothing. He didn't hear anything. Not even the sound of his own breathing. He wondered if he was breathing and pushed his hand up to stop in what he thought was his face. Tiny puffs of breath fell against his damp palm. A good sign…maybe…didn't he usually breathe deeper than that?

He moved his arm down and the fire swam through his nerves.

The warmth was an inferno and he felt the gasp escape his lips. His arm, his shoulder, pounded, the heat grappled his arm, screwed in its hooks, and swung back and forth. The ripples ceased, the heat poured lava through his shoulder, melting him into the whiteness around him. His teeth cut into his tongue. The fire flared, sparked his nerves, and sent fireflies scattering to his fingers. He tasted blood. Tears flowed from his eyes and he wondered if they were blood, if he was finally going to die. And God help him, he was a scared child after all.

X

It had occurred to him that he might/should run. But, and it was probably his father's fault (his mother had always claimed that he didn't get his stubbornness from her), he felt his feet anchor themselves into the floor and his knees bend slightly in case he needed to spring into the air. Swallowing and trying to look more nonchalant than he actually felt, Sam shook his head.

"No, sir, Ah don't reckon Ah have."

Creed smiled; it was…well, it was downright spooky, Sam decided.

"What are they teaching in schools nowadays?" Creed tsked. He moved toward the bed, his shadow black against the stark white of the room. Stopping by the bedside, he looked down at the patient. "_The Most Dangerous Game_ is, or at the very least _was_," he sent a disapproving glance toward Sam, "a classic piece of suspenseful literature. You've been hunting before, haven't you, Sam?"

He nodded. "Yeah, deer huntin' a time or two."

The corners of Creed's mouth twitched upward. "Would you consider that dangerous?"

"Well, Ah wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of a pissed off deer."

"But would you consider it more dangerous than say, hunting bear?"

Sam shrugged. "Ah reckon not."

"Do you like to read, Sam?"

"Sure. Science fiction-y stuff."

"Hmm. Well, I suppose in it's own right, this could be consider sort of a preliminary science fiction." He poked at the IV bag, checked the monitor, and turned back around. "What do you suppose would be the most dangerous thing to hunt?"

Sam's stomach twisted; he was almost positive that this was not going at all well. "Ah don't know, sir. Lions?"

The grin that answered him was positively feral. "No. And not tigers or bears either. In my experience, as well as in the story, the most dangerous thing to hunt would be something that has the power of reason."

"But, sir, the only thing that can do that is…" he wondered if any of the color was left in his face.

Creed shook his head. "No, Sam, mutants have that ability as well. And on top of that, they have powers. Which makes them dangerous…the most dangerous." He patted the bed. "One of the things that I like to do, Sam, is to give our members back a little of what has been taken from them. I like to give them back their superiority. God created us. He created humans. He gave us the ability to reason, to decipher between good and evil, to protect ourselves from all other beasts. He picked us over the animals. And now, all of a sudden, there are these mutants. And it's a test, Sam, a trial, to see if we are worthy, if we can see the difference between good and evil, if we can tell the difference between man and beast. They are our undoing. Unless we recognize them for what they are…animals under the veil of man. And what do we do with animals, Sam?"

He stared down at the patient, his lips curling into a snarl. "This…_mutant_…is going to help us. He will allow our pledges to enter into our community feeling like the superior beings that they are. Now, normally, when we do this, the mutant isn't this wounded, so we make them wear inhibitor collars to prevent them from using their powers." He chuckled. It was all Sam could do not to jump across the bed and break his neck. "But I shot this one myself, so he's a little worse for wear. But I thought it might prove more beneficial for pledges such as yourself to defeat a mutant who has his powers. What do you think?"

Sam's hands hurt; he was squeezing them so tight. Licking his lips, he had to focus on unclenching his jaw. "I think that the more wounded an animal is, the harder they fight for survival."

Creed smiled. "Oh, that's what I'm counting on." He glanced at his watch and shook his head. "Unfortunately, I have to go. It's time for my appearance." Pushing the door open, he turned to Sam. "Sam?"

Sam's brain whirred. He had to come up with a reason to stay…he had to have more time to evaluate the situation. And he couldn't very well do that with Creed staring over his shoulder. Glancing over at the mutant, he chewed his lip. "This is a real mutant?"

Creed nodded. "Freak powers and everything. Why?"

Sam rubbed the toe of his boot into the linoleum. "Ain't ever seen one this close."

"Haven't you?"

"Ah mean, Ah've seen 'em. Just never got within touching distance." He craned his neck to look over the foot of the bed. The patient was pale with a mop of brown hair falling into his eyes. A nervous shake ran through Sam's stomach. "Looks like us, don't he?"

Creed sighed. "If you want to look at him, Sam, that's fine. But don't hurt him…not yet. We have to consider the group's morale. You can have your chance on Monday. Oh, and don't touch him. Who knows what kind of filthy disease you could catch." He let the door bang shut behind him.

Sam bit his lip and choked on his retort. He glanced up, his eyes running across the walls and ceiling as he visually swept the room for cameras. There didn't appear to be any, but he didn't dare step out of character. Planting his hands into his jeans' pockets, he moved toward the bed, his eyes trained on the pale cheeks and the sloppy brown fringe that fell against them.

"Oh gawd."

X

"Run it again."

Lorna pinched the bridge of her nose and slumped in front of the monitor. "I've run every angle possible. There's nothing there. When I used my powers I fried the machines."

Scott shook his head. "We need something. Anything. Why would he just attack a group that big?"

"Because sometimes, Remy doesn't see the big picture," Hank suggested. "You know he can be rash, Scott."

"When have you ever known him to go into any setting without at least two exit strategies?"

Hank stared at him then turned to Lorna. "Run it again."

She sighed, but hit the button. "If he's such an escape artist why are you so concerned?"

Hank shrugged. "Harry Houdini."

"Excuse me?"

He looked at her. "Harry Houdini." She blinked back at him. "Come on! The great escapist! He could escape a straight jacket, handcuffs, water cells; he was unstoppable. But do you know what got him?" She shook her head. "Appendicitis."

"What does appendicitis have to do with anything?"

Logan tapped her shoulder. "Quit asking him questions." He squinted at the monitor. "What's happening here?"

Scott leaned toward the screen. "This is where they're meeting the group. How long after this did Gambit show up?"

"Just a little. Right after Sam and Rogue left."

"What are they saying?" Logan turned his ear toward the speakers. "Turn it up, will yah?"

"_I am Graydon Creed__and this is my most trusted associate, Theodore Lane."_

"Rogue looks scared." Hank noted. "Like really scared. They seem friendly enough…except for the whole anti-mutant terrorism thing and all…but she shouldn't be that scared."

Logan slammed his fist down. The metal clanged beneath his hand. "That's where I've smelled it before."

"What?"

"That scent. I know where I've smelled it before. It's the same one that was all over Rogue after the incident back home. She's seen that guy before." He nodded toward what was left of the man. "And I'll bet a left ear that's who shot Gambit."

Lorna grimaced. "That is just tacky."

X

The intermingling smells of beer and blood permeated the arena's air supply and Rogue gingerly placed her hand over her mouth and nose. Her tongue stung with the metallic taste and she fought the urge to spit it out on to the dirt floor. Glancing down from her box seat, she noticed the drag marks from each victim.

Blowing out a breath, Rogue chewed on the inside of her cheek. She had to get control of her emotions. If she showed any feelings other than excitement, her cover was as good as gone. And it wouldn't be just her in the hot seat. Sam would be right behind her, and any of the other X-Men if the Friends were able to make a connection between them.

_Speaking of Sam…_and she scanned the crowds in search of him. The door that he and Creed had disappeared into before the Purification was still covered with the blue material and she wondered what that meant. Was it some sort of secret code? Was Sam in trouble? She swallowed the stench and moved toward her box companion.

"What happens next?"

He looked up, his brow furrowed. "We do another mutant."

"Damn." She clenched her fists behind her back. "Ah'll miss it. Do you know where the bathroom is in this place?"

The annoyance shone through like a lighthouse beacon. "Through that door down yonder."

"The one with the blue?"

"Yeah. Go left."

"What's to the right?"

"Offices. Go left."

"Left it is."

She climbed down the stairs and moved toward the doorway. There were people standing along the outer edge of the arena. Their faces were glued to the scene before them. She pushed through them, apologizing the entire way for interrupting their bloodlust. Their bodies closed in around her, touching her, brushing her, trying to fit two bodies into the same space. She could feel the anxiety swell within her chest, could feel the pulse beneath each person's skin thudding in time to the blows against the mutant in the arena. There were arms, necks, and legs virtually naked, waiting to be touched. She gripped her hands together and she felt the tension run up her arms and into her neck. She kept her head down, kept her arms as close to her body as she could. By the time she got to the blue covered door, her head was splitting.

Once through the doorway, Rogue stepped into a corridor with a door on each end. One on the left and one on the right. She pointed toward the left, "Eeny meeny…" and to the right, "mine-y moe." Smiling she went to the right. "Let's see what's behind door number one."

X

He knew him.

It wasn't some nameless mutant that Creed had captured for his sick, little initiation.

He _knew_ him.

He knew his name.

He knew his friends.

He knew a few of his dreams.

It was all Sam could do not to retch all over the scrubbed linoleum.

Instead, he covered his nose and mouth with his hands and breathed. In. Out. Slow. Down. Calm. Down. Don't. Panic.

He looked at the monitor. The heartbeat read steady. He checked the IV. Hell, he wasn't a medical doctor; it looked okay to him. Sam swallowed and looked at the mutant.

He was pale, almost transparent really, with a grayish tint to his skin. Under his eyes, Sam could see circles. They glistened beneath the light and he realized that the skin was wet, damp from a slick layer of sweat. Circular sensors were spread across his bare chest measuring his heartbeat. A bandage covered his shoulder and upper arm and there were spots where the blood had saturated the fabric.

Sam ran his hands down his face and chewed on his lip.

"Oh, gawd."

He considered hoisting the mutant on his shoulders and cannonballing the hell outta there. Hardly a plausible scenario. Use his powers and bring every Tom, Dick, and Bubba out of the woodwork with their anti-mutant weaponry. Besides, that would put Rogue in a very sticky situation…

He let out a puff of air and looked down at the mutant. Swallowing, he stepped closer, his knuckles turning white as he held his hands in fists at his sides. His humanity won out, a trait that almost made him giggle with its irony, and he grasped the man's hands within his own.

He needed help. A plan. Something. But the fear within his belly was gnarled and pulsing and it felt alive under his skin. He just stood there. Overwhelmed by the new predicament, the new layer of evil pressed upon him, Sam's mind wandered. It finally rested on his partner and he swallowed. Rogue couldn't know. There'd be no escape for any of them if she knew. He'd seen it in her eyes, heard it in her voice. She was in too deep.

His voice was a rusted whisper. "Ya gotta hold on, Gambit. She's waitin' fer you."

X

Rogue was growing impatient. Sam had been gone for nearly an hour and quite frankly she wasn't accepting any excuse short of near-death. After all, it wasn't fair to leave a partner for that long. They started to worry, started to think that the cover had been compromised. Or worse yet, completely obliterated. She pushed through the door and planted her hands firmly on her hips.

No sign of Sam.

Instead, she found herself staring down another short corridor with another door at the end of it.

She blew out an exasperated breath and rolled her eyes. "So where's the Minotaur?"

X

"Listen, Gambit, if ya can hear me, we're gonna get you out of this."

X

Rogue huffed. If this turned out to be some sort of weird hall of doors, she'd question the Friends' sanity more than she already did. Shaking her head, she reached for the doorknob.

It whished away from her grasp. She sucked in the yelp, her hand following the sharp intake of air and clamping down over her lips.

Sam stared down at her, his eyes as wide as saucers. He glanced over his shoulder and pushed her away from the door. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for you. Ah was getting worried."

He twitched his jaw. "Ah'm fine." He threw another look over his shoulder and pulled the door closed behind him. "Just been…helpin' Creed."

Her brow furrowed and she looked at the door. "What's in there?"

His blue eyes burned a hole right between hers. "Nuthin." He grasped her shoulder and steered her around. "Don't want to miss anymore of the show." His fingers felt like steel.

She winced under the pressure of his fingertips but didn't argue. Instead, she let him lead her back to the arena. Something in his face told her not to question him.

And she was scared to death.

X

Optic blasts were a bitch.

Scott lifted his visor and pinched the bridge of his nose. His brain hammered beneath his skull and he felt the pressure forming behind his eyes. He contemplated shooting off a few optic blasts into the sky. He took a deep breath. It wouldn't help anything, not really. But it sure as hell would make him feel better.

Instead, he yelled at Hank. "Did you get in touch with the other liaisons?"

Hank looked up from his laptop. "Yes. Kitty's already on a flight out. How she managed it, I have no idea…probably hotwired a jet…or broke into some server…'Ro's just going to hop a northwesterly."

"You didn't tell her, did you?"

"That her little brother tangled with a mutant-hating, human supremacy group? That he's lost a good pint-full of blood? That we don't know if he's alive or dead? Let's see…" Hank tapped his chin, "no…I think skipped to the just-get-your-ass-down-here-it's-a-matter-of-national-security part. Call me old-fashioned, but I don't believe in bestowing bad news over the phone. Not if I can help it, anyway."

"Where's Logan?"

"He and Lorna are combing the debris for anymore possibilities."

Scott sighed, and he ran his fingers through his brown hair. "God, Hank. I—We planned everything. We allowed for absolutely every possible scenario with this mission. How did we get it so wrong?"

"This is not your fault, Scott."

He snorted his response. "But it is, Hank. I'm the field leader. I never—I didn't factor Remy into any of this. How could I not see that this would happen?"

"If I stuck my hand into an ant hill, what would you say?"

"Hank…"

Hank held up his furry hands. "Just humor me. What would you say?"

"I'd say, 'Hank, you dumb shit, why did you stick your hand in an ant hill?'"

"Ha-ha. You'd tell me that I was playing with fire and that I would get bit."

"No, I would tell you that you deserved to get bit for doing something so stupid."

"Fair enough. But would you be able to tell me which ants would bite me?"

"I imagine they all would."

"No, not all of them. Lots sure, but not all. But you wouldn't be able to tell me which ones." Hank looked at his hands. "I remember before I grew all this fur. I was so self-conscious of my mutation. My hands were awkward; my feet were huge. Did I ever tell you that I had to have my shoes specially made? I…wanted to be…normal…so badly. I planned everything. I calculated; I re-calculated. I wrote thousands of notes about how different chemicals reacted with each other. I must have filled five notebooks. I thought of everything. Even down to the glass that I would use to drink the formula, the formula that was going to change my life. Make me human. But I missed something. I forgot to calculate Fate's distinctively stubborn streak."

"So, what you're saying is it's not my fault? That I couldn't possibly have had the foresight to see the unexpected? That's what a field commander is supposed to do, Hank, expect the unexpected."

"No, what I'm saying is that even if you calculated everything, God may have other plans."

Scott held his head in his hands. "I can't take another death. I lost Jean. I couldn't save her. I've known Remy since he was thirteen, this sticky-fingered, smart-mouthed kid, who was so tough and brave and scared stiff that he was going to explode everything he touched, that he'd kill someone. And damn it if I didn't like him, if I didn't understand him. It was like watching myself."

"Only with kleptomania."

Despite himself, a chuckle escaped and he nodded, pursing his lips together. "And a bad haircut."

Hank licked his lips, his head bobbing up and down in understanding. "I don't think he's dead, Scott."

"Neither do I," he admitted, his voice cracking with emotion, "and I'm afraid that might be worse."

A ring disrupted the settling silence and both men jumped. Grabbing the cell phone, Hank glanced at the caller ID. "It's Sam."

Scott let out an exasperated breath. "Lorna left her phone? What kind of crap responsibility is that?"

Ignoring him, Hank flipped it open. "Hello? Sam? It's Hank. Is everything…what are you talking about? Calm down. Yes, I've read "The Most Dangerous Game"; it's a classic…" His mouth dropped open and he let out a sputter. "Are you absolutely…when? Did you tell…no, I wouldn't have either. Yeah…yeah…we'll be in contact. Be careful."

Scott watched as Hank closed the phone. "What's going on?"

Hank's blue eyes looked right through him. "It's worse."

"How much worse?"

The doctor sat down and stared at the phone in his massive hands. "Where does 'hunting mutants like animals' fall on your radar?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, the dull throbbing from his optic blasts pushed against his brain. "This is sick."

Hank was still staring at the phone; if he'd had optic blasts there would be little more than plastic dust in his hands. "Where does hunting Gambit like an animal fall?"

"Oh my stars and garters."

Hank nodded. "You took the words right out of my mouth."

X

"Who was that?"

Sam jumped, his cell phone clattered across the coffee table and slid to the carpet. Looking up, he swallowed. Rogue stood in the bedroom doorway, her hands on her hips. Her eyes narrowed, and he felt the stare filet his skin and look into his brain. He wasn't completely sure she couldn't read his thoughts; she was staring at him so intently. So he took a chance.

He lied.

"Lorna. Just checkin' in with her. She hasn't spoken to us since last night and Ah thought Ah might give her an update since we went to that Purification."

"Oh." She nodded, licking her lips. "What'd she say?"

"'Be careful.'"

She let out a puff of air. "No kidding. Did you tell her that Creed's your new best friend?"

He shook his head. "Escaped me."

"Right. Sure." She sat on the sofa, stared at her hands. "What was in that room, Sam?" He looked at her and shook his head. Before he could say anything, she threw in, "Don't lie to me. Ah'm your partner. Ah'm supposed to be privy to all the information. Why wouldn't you let me see in that room?"

"Rogue—"

"What is in that room?"

He rubbed his eyes and slid his hand down his face, wiping the exhaustion away with one swipe. "Ah didn't want you to see."

"What was it?"

Sam's brain was in action and he felt a tug. Clearing his throat, he decided to tell her the truth. "Lane was killed."

"Ah know that."

"Creed saved the body. It's in little more than chunks."

"What?"

"There was a table in that room. What's left of Lane was piled on top of it. You know what tuna fish looks like?"

Her face twisted and she covered her mouth as a gag rolled through her stomach. "Oh my—He's sick!"

"Ah didn't want you to see."

She felt the disgust crawl through her body as tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. She hated Lane; he was a monster. She had wished death to him for months. But even so, she couldn't help but think that perhaps the worse monster had lived. Standing up, she felt a shiver run down her spine. "Was there anything else?"

Sam looked up at her. "Creed's going to have an initiation for pledges. He's done it before. They have to hunt a mutant like he's an animal."

She felt her stomach swim. "When's that happenin'?"

"Monday."

"Tomorrow is Sunday."

"Ah know that."

"We have to rescue that mutant."

"Ah know that."

"Well, how're we gonna do it?"

"Ah don't know."

Rogue sucked in air and shook her head. "Ah have to go outside for a second. Ah gotta get some fresh air."

Sam watched as she closed the door behind her. He sighed, wondering how long before the truth came out.

X

Kitty stared blankly at the monitor, her fingers tapping the console in an anti-rhythmic pattern. She watched as the scene erupted, debris and smoke showered across the limo and the Friends hit the dirt. It was like the whole world had rocked against the explosion and up was now down. She leaned into it, her eyes squinting against the electronic light and she clicked the mouse to freeze the frame. In the top left corner, she could make out a pixeled blur of brown and she sighed.

Hank was standing to her right and leaning over her shoulder. "After this, the cameras were fried by Lorna's magnetic fields."

She didn't reply. And for a second, Hank wasn't sure whether or not she had heard him, but if there was one thing he understood, it was genius at work, and he simply stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest. Once again, her fingers started moving, flying across the keyboard like they had minds of their own. He waited, turned his big hands over and under, watching the grace of his movements with ironic amusement.

Finally, Kitty's head dropped into her hands and she heaved a sigh.

He halted the topsy-turvy dance and looked over her shoulder. There in all his flat black and white glory lay Remy. Above him, pointing a gun in his face, stood Graydon Creed.

Hank could feel the anger welling up inside of him and he grasped his hands together, crushing them in his grip. Licking his lips, he cleared his throat. "How did you--?"

"It's a warehouse sector, Hank. There are surveillance cameras everywhere. I just had to find the right one."

"You hacked a surveillance camera?"

She pushed a stray piece of hair off her forehead. "Hey, we all have our areas of expertise."

Hank nodded. "I think I may have underestimated you."

"That's sort of the general idea." Scratching her head, she stared at the frame. "This is the only camera within range. Unfortunately, it's stationary. I have no way of telling where they took him."

"We already know."

Kitty and Hank spun around. Scott was standing in the entrance. "Storm just radioed in. She'll be here in five minutes." He stopped, chewed his bottom lip in concentration. "Contact Wolverine and Polaris. Tell them to come back to the Blackbird. We're going to have a nice sit down strategy meeting and we need all liaisons present. The rest of the infiltration team will be arriving in Atlanta tomorrow and the Friends' Initiation takes place on Monday. We must have a viable plan of attack by tomorrow." He pulled his lips back in a thin, unconvincing smile. "I'll be in the cockpit if you need me."

They watched him leave. Hank clicked his tongue. "You know what that was code for?"

Kitty's eyes focused on the monitor. "Yeah. The shit just hit the fan."

X

His skin ached.

It felt stretched, thin. He swiped a hand down the opposite arm. It was like a knife cut away the top layer of his derma. The shudder of pain ran through his body, slithering up and down his spine until it finally curled up between his shoulder blades and hissed its head off. He shook against it.

The air around him had cooled. He shivered.

It seemed appropriate, in a strange way, to stay in this deranged form of stasis. There was pain, sure, but he doubted it would be better awake. And there was something else. Something he couldn't quite place. But it tickled his brain and convinced him to sleep. To save his strength. To conserve his energy. Because he had the very depressing feeling that he was going to need it.

So he slept.

It wasn't peaceful. It wasn't fulfilling.

But that tickling in his brain told him that it was the better alternative to being awake.

It was probably his empathy, he decided, reading the intentions and feelings of those around him. After all, if he remembered correctly, he didn't exactly punch out in the most friendly of environments.

Though, there was this one moment.

For a second, he felt love. Safety. Concern. And it had been directed at him.

But it had been fleeting, gone too quickly for him to even fully register the situation, or to use it to his benefit.

So he slept.

X

It was a holy hell.

The mutants, crumpled, beaten. The Friends standing over them like hunters looking over a ten-point buck. The glint of bloodlust in their eyes.

No sane human could take in that much hate. That much death. Not without being scarred by it. And she was, Rogue decided, as she stood outside her apartment, sucking down the Atlanta air like she was huffing paint. It had branded her, tattooed itself on her soul.

The worst part was that she couldn't stop it. Not without outing herself or Sam. Not without compromising the mission. The moral enigma made her head whine like a rusted door.

The night air held a chill and she crossed her arms over her chest. She shivered and she questioned its source. It occurred to her that even if it had been a hot, humid southern night, after witnessing the Purification, she'd probably be shivering nonstop.

A tear trailed down her cheek and she caught it with her fingertips.

She was scared.

She had to think of something…anything but the lost, painful look of that mutant as the Friends hauled her up in the air by the crane. Rogue ran her hands up and down her arms, willing the cold out of her limbs, out of her heart. She thought of warmth, of touch. Of Remy.

She thought of the way his presence made her tingle. The way one look from him set her heart on fire. She remembered his touch, so feather-light, so careful like he was afraid to grasp her too tightly, afraid that she would bust into a million slivers. She remembered his breath on her lips…remembered the way he had kissed her with urgency…the hunger that had swelled her belly and devoured her heart. The way she felt safe…so safe and so warm.

_M'écouter, petit l'un. Je suis dans l'amour avec vous_. (Listen to me, little one. I am in love with you.)

She pressed her fingers beneath her eyes, catching the tears as they spilled over, and wondered if she'd ever feel that safe again.

X

"Oh goddess—" Her hands covered her face as Ororo tried desperately to suck down enough air to breathe. Looking up at Hank, her lip trembled. "You're sure?"

He nodded and gripped her shoulder. "Sam called it in."

Scott sat across the table from her, his features unreadable. She glanced at him, a pleading in her eyes. He looked away, his jaw flexing with emotion.

Logan cleared his throat. "He was hurt pretty bad, 'Ro. There's a lot of his blood out there."

She nodded and wiped tears from her cheeks. "What are we going to do? How can we—? How can we get him out?"

"We can't."

They stopped and looked at Scott. He was standing behind the table; Kitty thought she saw a drop of water trickle from beneath his visor.

Ororo pushed her chair back so hard that it fell to the floor. "What do you mean 'we can't'? We're just going to let those monsters kill him?!"

A flash of red and Scott ground out the words. "We can't get him out of the facility; we don't know what sort of security risks that could pose to the mission. We don't know if he's the only mutant Creed plans to use. We have to wait until the hunt. We have to rescue all the mutants."

Logan cracked his knuckles. "What do you mean? Some sort of joint rescue? You want us to crack all the facilities?"

Scott shook his head. "We can't get all of them; it kills me to say that, but there aren't enough of us. We have to focus on one, this one. It will be up to our teams to rescue Gambit and any other mutants being hunted. _We_ will have to run a reconnaissance for possible mutants at the facility. That's the only way."

Lorna's face twisted. "That's not gonna stop them. They'll just get more mutants."

"I know that." Scott licked his lips. "Damn it, I know that."

Hank put his hand on Scott's shoulder. "I think, Miss Dane, that we've had to come to a harsh bit of reality. We can't stop the Friends, but I think I speak for everyone when I say we sure as hell are gonna make it hard for them."

X

Emma Frost was not accustomed to X-Men missions. Her idea of a mass infiltration usually meant corporate take-overs and severance packages. Of course that way of life had gone by the wayside when she joined the ranks of X-Corp, the business face of Xavier's mutant sanctuary. Most of the employees had, at one time or another, been students at the Institute. They were the ones who wanted to make a difference but weren't quite adept at the whole superhero spandex thing.

Emma was not an alumnus of the Institute. Her parents hired expensive tutors who taught her in the privacy of their own mansion. If they had ever considered letting her attend a school, the thought was immediately erased when her mutation came to light.

She remembered it with crystal clear clarity.

She had been ten-years-old. The weather was abnormally pleasant for a late winter day and her mother had instructed the maids to open all the windows so that the fresh air could have a chance to sweep away the winter staleness. Her father and two of his associates were in the study; Emma was playing outside under the open window.

At first her parents thought that she must of somehow eavesdropped. That his associates had muttered under their breaths. But they soon discovered that little Emma was hearing what no one was supposed to, she was hearing what people were thinking. From then on, she became her father's hatchet man, listening to the thoughts of those he was interested in buying out, finding out what his enemies had planned and turning their own plans around on them. She single-handedly earned her father millions of dollars.

And he wanted more.

When Charles Xavier was finally able to meet with her—without her parents' knowledge—she was eighteen years old and had been emotionally neglected for eight years. Sure, they gave her things—cars, clothes, diamonds—but they saw her as little more than a meal ticket. And no matter how often they told her how much they loved her and what a wonderful daughter she was, she knew the fear they felt towards her; she knew they were angry that their perfect little girl was an abominable mutant. She knew they used her.

The look on her father's face when she left was only a fraction of the disappointment he wore when he lost his first million to a competing corporation.

Working for X-Corp, Emma felt she made a difference, that she was able to protect mutants from being victimized the way that her parents had victimized her. It was a chance to be more than the hatchet man…more than the family jewel that was only brought out to gloat to the in-laws. But X-Corp had her wanting more…she wanted to be a part of the action. She wanted to really see the difference she was making. When Xavier contacted her about the infiltration, she jumped at it.

Now, sipping something called "iced tea"—in Coach of all places—she was almost positive that she had overestimated her need to make a difference. Glancing at her partner, she shook her head.

"Robert, what are you doing?"

Bobby Drake looked up from his second Jack and Coke. "Drinking. What are you doing?"

She huffed, plumping out her bottom lip in a pretty pout. "I know you're drinking."

"Then why ask?" He allowed himself another sip.

"Because you shouldn't be drinking. It's not a good idea."

Bobby licked his lips and dropped his voice. "How else do you propose I make it through this? Do you have any idea what's going on? Hmm? Have you scanned them? Do you even know if this is a trap?"

She sucked in her lips. "It's not a trap. Do you think I would have gotten on an airplane if it were? I'm telepathic, not telekinetic."

"Good to know," and he drained his glass. "Don't count on you to stop any bullets in mid-air. Check." He ran his hands over his eyes. "You know, I thought when I left the team and started working for X-Corp that I had a chance for a real life. And I'm right back where I started." He shook his head. "Shouldn't even be talking about this. We'll get caught."

"No, we won't." Emma tapped her forehead. "I have us on loop."

He allowed a bitter chuckle. "Running in circles. Like this mission."

"You need to stop drinking."

"I need something to numb it all."

"_I'm_ not drinking."

He raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, but _you_ were puking."

Emma straightened her back. "Sometimes I get sick when I get really upset."

"Yeah? Well, I get drunk when I get really upset."

X

Human-mutant relations had been pounded into his brain since he was only a child. The inferiority of humans and the superiority of mutants were drilled into him the way the alphabet was drilled into a kindergartener. Ramrod and repeat.

To say that he had no inkling to believe the way he was instructed would be a lie. He did believe that mutants were the next step on the evolutionary ladder; he just didn't agree that humans should be obliterated. He didn't believe that it was his lot in life to play the Hand of God. He was more a man of science. Let time work its magic. It always had in the past.

However the infiltration made it hard to just sit back and wait for evolution to take place. The Friends systematically tortured and murdered mutants. And it reminded him of his father. Just from the outside looking in. The real clincher was that both the Friends and his father saw themselves as the saviors of their race. He felt the sick turn of his stomach and let out a breath. He wondered if either of them was right.

Joseph stared pointedly down at his bag of chips. "You'd think for the price there'd be more."

Betsy looked up from her magazine and scowled down at his empty bag. "It's a marketing ploy to get you to spend more money. How many of those have you had anyway?"

Joseph licked the salt from his fingers. "Three."

"Disgusting."

He shrugged and shook miniscule crumbs into his open palm. "Yeah, not exactly my idea of a last meal either."

She blew purple bangs from her forehead. "I told you, it's not a trap. Our sponsors have the acting ability of grubs. Even if I couldn't read their thoughts, I'd know what they were thinking."

"Yeah, well," he checked his watch. "How much longer before we arrive in Atlanta?"

X

JP's smile was tight as he accepted his drink from the flight attendant. She grinned at him and winked. He winked back and wished that he wasn't so damn attractive to the opposite sex. It was a real bother when the women were hitting on him more than the men. He nodded at his sponsors. Not that he was interested in any of them. Murderers. "_Quand je suis fait avec ce petit façade, je vais avoir plaisir à vous faire frire des bâtards vivants_. (When I'm done with this little façade, I'm going to enjoy frying you bastards alive.)" He raised his glass, they followed suit, and he drank to their demise.

X

Kurt Wagner glanced up from his window seat. His insides were an uncontrollable flutter and he was certain that any ill-placed turbulence would send his lunch barreling on top of the woman in front of him. He had never been exactly fond of air travel, one of the reasons he preferred his powers, but this particular plane ride was hell on wings. The attendants were _gut (_good); the weather was _gut_; the ride was _gut_; the company? That was _schrecklich_ (terrible).

Across the aisle, lost in his own thoughts, was Piotr Rasputin. Piotr drummed his fingers on his knees and pretended to listen to his earphones. The music did nothing to soothe his nerves, and he wished that he had brought a sketchpad. Anything to keep his hands from being idle would have been Godsend. Unfortunately, he was unsure of how artists would be looked upon by the Friends; they were destroyers. They saw no beauty in differences, in uniqueness…that wasn't true of artists. He looked at his hands momentarily. Artists could see beauty in the mundane, exoticness in the plain, and, dare he say it, humanity in the alien. Mutants were humans, just with a little weirdness rolled in. He sighed, checked his player and fiddled with the volume. It was going to be a long ride.

X

The keyboard clicked under Kitty's fingertips. A pink tongue tip poked between her lips as she squinted at the monitor. "All planes are on time…so far…" she pressed some more keys. "I'm checking weather reports for all flight paths…" she sighed. "Good. All good."

"That's the best news we've had all day," Logan managed with a mouth of cheeseburger. "How are we going to make contact with them? They'll be watched like hawks."

Ororo nodded. "No personal contact can be made."

"Cells?" Hank offered, slurping a chocolate milk shake.

Lorna shrugged. "I'm still able to talk to Sam and Rogue. Maybe I can let them have the plan and they can share it with the others."

"That won't work. Remember, they're all coming in from different parts of the country. Supposedly, they don't know any of the others even exist. If they all become buddy-buddy and start sharing immediately, the Friends will know something is up." Scott chewed on his thumb. "Kitty, I want you to check hotels. Find out if any have an unusually large number of reserved rooms for the next couple of days. If the Friends run like other organizations, they're going to want to keep their out of town guests close."

X

"Good morning, mutant."

Remy's eyes blinked against the brightness of a strange white room. His head felt foggy, unstable. He reached his hand up to touch his temple…and that's when he realized he was strapped down.

The voice filled his head again. "You are recovering nicely. Your freak DNA must have some usage after all."

Remy considered a retort, but his mouth felt like sandpaper.

The voice continued. "I'm sure you have several questions. Let's start with the obvious one: you are a prisoner of the Friends of Humanity. You are alive, for now, because you offer a very special opportunity."

He swallowed, "Wh—", cleared his throat, "What de fuck could dat possibly be?"

A face appeared over him and he knew his eyes widened against the smug, ugly face. "Why the opportunity to kill you, of course."

X

Kitty double-checked the monitor. "Yeah…I think I've got something. The Hyatt Regency is majorly booked. And get this, one of the guest's names…Graydon Creed."

Scott sighed. "That's it then. That's where they'll be staying."

"They've booked use of all of the meeting rooms…I think I'm going to be sick…They've billed their group 'The Human Rights Coalition.'"

Hank shook his head. "They couldn't very well have used the Friends of Humanity, could they? It's a little too blatantly racist. This way, perhaps, they've got the guise of morality."

"Speaking of 'guise'," Kitty started, chewing her bottom lip, "does Rogue know?"

The room stopped and everyone turned expectantly toward Scott.

He opened his mouth, and then closed it once more. Shaking his head, he sighed. "No. Rogue does not know about Remy."

Ororo cleared her throat. "Don't you think we should tell her? Do you really think it prudent to let her find out at the hunt?"

"Would you rather her try to sneak in and free him on her own?" Logan questioned. "Think about it, 'Ro. You know how stubborn she can be when she makes up her mind about something. And she's made up her mind about him. We tell her that he's been captured and we put everyone else at risk. I can't believe I'm saying this, but Cyke's made the right call here."

"One of our planes will be landing at Hartsfield-Jackson in an hour," Kitty piped up. "It's Emma and Bobby."

Scott leaned across the table. "Good. A telepath. Logan, Kitty. I want you to head to the airport. Don't worry about physical contact. Get near enough Emma and mentally call to her. If we can make telepathic contact, Emma can let the others know the situation and the plan. Don't let her know it's Remy. We need a team, not a bunch of vigilantes."

Ororo shook her head. "What about JP? He has a right to know. Remy's his brother."

"No," Scott reached for her hand. "We need them to be focused. We need them to be calm. That reality won't help."

"So instead you're going to let the shock of seeing him in that situation win out? I don't agree, Scott—"

"I'm not asking you to. But I am the field leader and it's my call. And I do expect you to follow that. This may very well end badly. And it will be on my shoulders. And I know that. But I have to consider every possibility. And right now, letting them know how much hangs in the balance, may lead to more problems. We need strategy. We need cohesion. We need the X-Men."

* * *

Thank you to everyone who reviewed. I hope that I was able to respond to all of you. I think that I did...but I don't remember things as well as I used to...I'm getting old...

Oh, I don't own the Hyatt Regency...nor am I getting paid for using that name in my story...pretty much I just checked into large hotels in the Atlanta region and that one had a nice website. So...there you go. Please do not sue me. Also I doubt that the hotel would be affiliated with the FoH. Again, don't sue me.

Rogue's still in the dark about Remy; all of the double-agents (except for Sam) are. Is Scott making the right call? Should everyone be contacted with the whole story? How will Rogue react when she finds out? Will Kitty and Logan be able to get the message to Emma? Will Bobby be able to walk off the plane? Can the X-Men save Remy in time? Are other mutants involved in the hunt? Will Rogue be able to tell Remy how she really feels?


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

_**If I go crazy, then will you still call me Superman?**_

**---Three Doors Down, ****Kryptonite**

He had been shoved into some sort of container. It had happened so fast that his mind was still hazy from the terror chewing on his nerves. He had awakened to a burning sensation in his shoulder. Some guy, roughly the size of Alaska—scout's honor—was packing his wound with gauze. It smelled sickly of antiseptic and burned like a mother. The guy had glowered down at him and dug his knuckles into the gauze. Fuck, it hurt. And he ground his teeth together to keep from giving the giant the pleasure of his pain. Time crept past and the giant finished dressing his wound. He was jerked up by his good arm and pulled to a sitting position. Alaska roughly threw him over his shoulder and moved through the doorway before dropping him like a sack of garbage into what he could only guess resembled a trashcan.

From that point, the opening had slammed shut and he marveled at how uncomfortable he was. The container was cylindrical with smooth sides. The area was small and he had to work to get his body into a more upright position. Once he had achieved that small feat, the ache that coursed through his body quickly made him question whether or not he had made the best choice.

The truth was…he hurt.

He hurt everywhere.

For crying out loud, even his hair hurt.

The muscles in his shoulder burned and he bit his lip against the pain. His blood pulsed through his legs at a rushing pace…what he could only assume went in time to the thudding of his heart. And it occurred to him, in that tiny little space, two things: one, thank God he wasn't claustrophobic, and two, he was going to die. For really, and truly, this was the end of the line for him. Remy Lebeau had finally stumbled into a hell that even he couldn't charm himself out of.

And he laughed.

He laughed at his stupidity.

He laughed at his ignorance.

He laughed at his faith.

Because he had _believed_. Worse than that, really. He had _let_ himself believe.

In himself.

In the X-Men.

In the basic goodness that Xavier had pressed into his psyche, had implored him to see, to feel. He had always rolled his eyes and made off-color remarks, but the truth was, he had wanted so much to believe in Xavier's humanist psychology that somewhere along the line, he did believe it. Bought into it. And now cashed it in for a big-ass serving of NOPE.

And he had believed…

He believed…

He _did_ believe…

…in her.

In Rogue.

And he knew…not that it mattered now, seeing as how he was going to die some viciously inhumane death at the hands of…well, straight up ass-wipes. He knew he…

What the fuck? Was he crying?!

He swiped the tears from his face and let out a deep breath.

So what if he did? What if he loved her? What if he could see runny-nosed toddlers teetering through the halls of the Institute? And so what if that appealed to him? It didn't matter.

His chest squeezed and he forced air through his lungs. Gawd, it was getting hot. Had the walls gotten closer? He ran his hands down his face and grimaced at the pain in his shoulder. He couldn't see it, but he could feel the thick warmth of blood sliding down his arm. The metallic stench filled the container in seconds and he felt nauseous.

Okay, maybe he _was_ claustrophobic.

Impending death and doom could do that to a person.

He needed some sort of advantage to this situation, some chip with which to bargain. He poked his finger at the smooth surface and focused. "_S'il vous plaît Dieu, donnez-moi quelque chose, n'importe quoi. _(Please God, give me something, anything.)"

The tip of his finger glowed pink.

X

Ororo pinched the bridge of her nose and rubbed at the corners of her eyes. Her nerves were worn to a frazzle. Worse than that, really. A frazzle would have been welcome wear…she had gone beyond the frazzle to straight up bareness. It was her own fault, she decided. After all, who in their right mind volunteered to stare at a television monitor for twelve straight hours? But that, in itself, was the clincher. She wasn't in her right mind. She hadn't been in her right mind in approximately forty-eight soul-sucking hours. Not since she had been told about Remy's capture. Not since she had heard the news from Sam. Not since this whole catastrophe had begun. Damn it. It'd been well longer than forty-eight hours.

As second in command of the X-Men, there were certain responsibilities and expectations that Ororo held. One was that she wanted to provide her team with poised leadership. It was important for the group, she felt, to see her as someone who was in control, steadfast, knowledgeable. If she was to ask of them to put their lives on the line for individuals they didn't know or ideals that seemed so abstract, she believed it was her responsibility to be well informed and believable. How could anyone follow her through the bowels of hell if they didn't have faith that she would do everything in her power to get them out? They wouldn't.

Control was everything.

It made her dot her I's and cross her T's.

It made her follow every in and out and plot and subplot.

It made her logical, surgical, and restrained.

But right now, it was making her crazy.

And crazy control did not make for a good leader.

Hell, crazy control was crazy with a side of, what did Remy call it? The loonies?

She allowed herself a smile. And she thought about her brother and how his smile slid sideways across his face and spilled into a lazy, albeit secretly knowing grin. She imagined the shock of brown hair tickling down his cheeks and forehead and falling into his twinkling eyes.

And she felt her composure chip away. And she caught the tears with her fingertips.

"'Ro? You in there?" Lorna's voice ricocheted off the metallic innards of the Blackbird causing Ororo to jump and swipe furiously at her face.

She sniffed discreetly and steadied her voice. "Yeah, yeah. I am." She felt foolish, uncontrolled.

Lorna popped her head into the monitoring room and flashed her eyes up to the screens before focusing them on the woman before her. "Anything?"

"No," Ororo's silvery curls shook in frustration. "I don't know what I'm looking for. It's unnerving, but the Friends… They're so very automatic. Almost like inhuman. Like they never miss a moment, a beat. They're robots."

Lorna shrugged. "Computers make mistakes."

"Don't tell that to Kitty."

"Whatever," she grinned. "Computers are only as smart as their programmers. And sometimes people get cocky or greedy or stupid and mistakes happen." She sighed, ran a hand through green locks and squinted at the screens. "How long have you been watching these things?"

Ororo wiped her eyes. "Twelve hours."

"Yuck." She pulled up a chair and plopped down. "You need some fresh eyes. Staring at these things nonstop will make you crazy. So what exactly are we watching?"

"The Friends' bunker."

"You mean, where those grotesque 'Purifications' were held? Where they think Remy is? Why did they just plant cameras and not go in guns blazing?"

Ororo felt a twinge of annoyance, not at Lorna, but because she had felt the same way. "Because we'd be going in completely blind. We don't want to chance other lives just for one of our own."

Lorna licked her lips. "Oh. Is that the official response or how you really feel?"

The iced stare seemed to be answer enough.

"OK." Lorna let out a breath of air and grimaced, her eyes narrowing against the fuzzy picture. "Has there been any movement?"

"They took some trash to the dump, but other than that, nothing."

"Trash?"

"Yeah."

"In a can?"

_For the love of_… "Yes, in a can."

"Why would they do that? They've got dumpsters in the back of the building."

Ororo looked at her. "What?"

"Yeah, see?" Lorna pointed to a fuzzy gray rectangle setting behind the building. "That's a dumpster. Why wouldn't they just throw their trash into a dumpster and wait for the sanitation department to come and haul it away?"

X

The charter bus pulled down the drive; Rogue heard the gravel crunch beneath the tires and blew out a breath. It had been a long morning. The fact that she knew what was coming next had made it even longer.

Sunday had come and gone in a whirlwind of telepathic strategy meetings. The plan was simple. Get in, get the mutant(s), and get out. It seemed easy enough, except for the glaring fact that they didn't know the subtleties with which they would be working. The breakdown had skewered itself to her brain and she couldn't shake the indescribable feeling that there was something someone wasn't telling her. It felt like a clamp on her guts and every time she even looked at Sam it twisted. But, despite her suspicion, she focused on the lack of details and how she could work around them.

One. There was no telling how many mutants Creed had actually captured to participate in the ritual hunt.

Two. There were no technological devices to use to stay in contact with her teammates.

Three. None of the Friends had leaked the location of the hunt. The terrain, the area, the animals…she had no idea what she was up against.

Four. The lack of location meant that there could be a chance that innocents could be in jeopardy. She had to keep an eye out for them.

Five. X-Men didn't normally kill. Would she make an exception this time?

Six. Should she be powerless or skip the pill? What would be in the best interest of the mission?

It occurred to her that these were questions she had asked herself countless missions before. They always came down to the same answers. She had to trust her instincts, trust her training, and trust her team. But this time, she was certain that her team wasn't disclosing the full Monty, so could she truly trust them?

The bus pulled to a stop and Rogue glanced out the window. They had parked in front of an information building and she felt a shiver run down her spine at the words, "Nature Preserve." So, they'd truly be hunting the mutant like an animal. It made her stomach twist in disgust.

Beside her, Sam gave a low grunt. "Look alive."

She plastered a grin across her pretty face and caught Creed's eye as he approached.

He nodded at her and smiled. "Well, are you two ready to take back America?"

Sam threw his arm over her shoulder and squeezed her to his chest. "Sir, we cannot wait. Ah can't believe we actually get to be a part of this."

Rogue felt the strength of his grip on her arm and bit her tongue beneath her smile. "It's truly visionary," she managed and felt sickened at Creed's beam.

He chuckled, patted Sam's shoulder, and looked toward the back of the bus. "I need to give one more glowing endorsement for our rite of passage," he started, "but I think I'll wait until we've unloaded all the buses and have moved into the preserve."

X

The Georgia Nature Preserve was south of Atlanta, and just a hop, skip, and jump down Highway 75 from the airport. Creed picked it for obvious travel reasons; it was far enough from the hotel to prevent immediate accusations if something were to go awry, and it was close enough to the airport to get those things out if need be. The preserve offered the space necessary to keep up the predatory illusion of a fair hunt—acres upon acres of forest and wetlands. He imagined the quarry splashing aimlessly about the wooded ponds as it searched desperately for an out. He envisioned his members, golden halos flaring out to the Heavens, calmly kneeling, calmly aiming, and calmly obliterating the mutant blight from the face of God's Earth.

Brought a tear to his eye.

Really.

He brushed it away, puffed his chest, and exited the bus.

It hadn't been an easy scheme. The nature preserve believed in—get this—preservation. Even of mutants. Traitors. So, he had to be creative. Not a problem. He was used to living on the fringe of conscience. His…father…had been extremely helpful in that department. Basically, right and wrong were gray. Sometimes it wasn't completely bad to steal; sometimes, it wasn't completely bad to kill. Humans had an innate ability to find the loophole in the Commandments. Stealing to feed your family…honorable. Killing to protect your family…understandable.

So while he couldn't come right out and address the preserve with the whole of his plans, he used those gray areas to shield the complete erroneous aspects of his truth.

He was providing a service to help humans feel safe during these days of mutant uprisings. He was allowing them to participate in a self-esteem building exercise that would help to empower them to stand up for their rights. The preserve believed it was some new ropes course. They didn't have any idea of the number of weapons in the buses' storage units.

X

He stopped.

Lifting his head from the side of his cylindrical coffin, Remy felt that the lulling vibrations had ended.

After they'd stuffed him into the can, they'd wheeled him out to what he could only assume was a large truck with a bad muffler. He'd held his breath when they'd lifted his new cubbyhole onto the rig, biding his time, not wanting to rock the boat before he'd have an actual chance for escape. He'd been jostled and juggled into a semi-restful state, which could have been more if his leg hadn't fallen asleep.

He licked his lips, his throat dry from the stifling heat of his prison; he flicked his tongue at a bead of sweat as it trailed down his face. He waited. His ears straining for sounds of—well, anything really. Life, death, sport. His mind floated to Belle. He hoped she was happy. It seemed trite and uncharacteristically big of him, he decided, but he really meant it. After all, if he was going to die, it was better to go lightly, than with a big, honkin' suitcase of grudges trailing after him. He ticked down his list, wishing them all the best and meaning it…mostly…when he finally came to her.

Gawd, there was so much. So much he hadn't said. So much he hadn't done. He pushed his bangs off his forehead and tucked them behind his ears. They fell free and skirted across his jaw line, catching at his lips. And suddenly, he was back in that vanilla-colored Danger Room simulation watching her push back a stray hair, watching her lick her lips, and feeling…so warm…so thirsty…

Footsteps.

And the can rocked under several sets of hands, lowering from a higher position and jarring him as it came down hard on…the ground?

His fingers twitched, balled into fists. His shoulder shuddered against the grip. He gritted his teeth, breathed through his nose. _Not yet_, he willed himself. _Wait for the right time._ _Wait for the hunt. And at the very least, if I can't make it, I'm takin' that sonovabitch out with me._

X

"How many are we talking?" Logan leaned against the doorjamb of the makeshift traveling war room.

Xavier shared a look with Ororo before answering. "At the very least? Ten."

"What the hell kind of answer is that?" Moving from the door, he dropped into a chair. "'At the very least.' I don't give a rat's ass about the very least. I want to know what we're talking here. What's the very most?"

Lorna coughed. "Ten was all we counted. But the picture was incomplete. There were other trucks off camera."

"If they were off camera how do you know they were there?"

"When they turned on their lights they lit the place up like my Aunt Agnes on New Year's."

"Well, that's just fuckin' swell." He turned to Xavier, his blue eyes narrowing as he spoke, "This isn't going to end well, you know. People are gonna die. And I know you got a thing against killin', but it's them or us, and I'm tellin' ya right now, I ain't gonna let it be us."

X

The preserve boasted over one hundred acres of wooded wetlands. Cutting a jagged path through them was a worn trail punctuated by keenly spaced tree roots that barely breached the surface, just grazing the dirt's top enough to neatly break someone's leg.

Rogue swiped at a loose curl that had blown into her eye and caught sight of a patch of pokeweed growing wild among the shrubbery. She wiped a trickle of perspiration from her forehead and dug into her jeans pocket for a hair tie. Using her fingers for a comb, she pulled her unruly curls into a messy ponytail and continued to follow the crowd up the trail toward what Creed had dubbed the 'Apex of Humanity.'

She caught sight of Bobby. His eyes locked her own for an instance and he dipped his head the way a stranger does when acknowledging another's presence. She copied the gesture, feeling her throat clog from the dust in the wind and from the mutual disgust they had secretly shared. She moved closer to Sam, locking her hand in his, twisting her fingers around his own, anchoring herself to him.

He squeezed her hand, dipped down to her ear, and whispered, "Easy girl. Think sweet potato pie. Think blisterin' summer days. We pull this one off and it's all cake from this point out."

She wondered if he bought into the bullshit.

She hoped so.

_Update people._ Emma's telepathic alert blared through her brain. _Xavier just connected with me via Cerebro. It seems that Cyclops and the others have been doing some much needed Intel work. We know from Sam's update that there is a mutant prisoner being held as prey for these nitwitted buffoons, but unfortunately not by itself. According to Xavier, at least ten mutant hostages have been transported here. There is not a definite number._

The path opened up to a large amphitheater. Rogue's grip tightened around Sam's hand. They followed the crowd down the stairs, finding seats directly in front of the stage. She scanned the audience. Kurt and Piotr had posted themselves near the top of the seats, each sitting directly beside one of the walkways. Bobby and Emma were on the far left; Betsy and Joe were on the right. JP was in the middle as well, but had opted to sit farther back; he formed a triangle with Kurt and Piotr.

Rogue let out a ragged breath, her heart thumped against her ribcage. Emma's voice was echoing through her head once again, _Remember, our mission is to rescue the mutants with as little collateral damage as possible. _

Betsy's voice was a ferocious whisper just above her temple. _I say we break their bloody faces and call it an accident._

X

Graydon Creed gazed over the amphitheater seating and grinned. Standing room only. He puffed out his chest and walked onto the stage. He stood at the front, his eyes dusting over each expectant face, each human awaiting the reassurance that he or she was still the supreme being on earth, that they still held that all-important position as God's favorites. The crowd was peppered with every different face imaginable: old, young, black, white, Hispanic—the genuine thing about mutants was that hatred for them was an all-encompassing sort of hate. It surpassed any other kind of bigotry. Creed drew in a deep breath.

But mutants were different. They were dangerous. They had potential for horrible, horrible things. They were arsenals in their own right; walking time bombs with only one thing protecting the good, hard-working everyday Joe. Morality. And who could count on that anymore?

"My fellow humans," Creed's voice was the thunder of a terrible storm. "I am so proud to join you today." He paused; dramatic pauses were key when building excitement, and he so enjoyed sending his audience into a frenzied state; it made them easier to control. "Today is a turning point for the human race. It is a chance for new beginnings. Redemption. It is the time for taking back what has rightfully been ours for thousands of years. We are the chosen ones. We are the ones created in the likeness of the Lord.

"Now, He has tested us, checked our worthiness. And I'm not going to lie to you—at times we have come up wanting. But each day is brand-new, with new opportunities, new chances, to prove that we are the rightful successors of His glorious plan. And we, my friends, we can take back our world. We can make it safe for our children again!"

And they cheered.

His smile was smug. He looked to the back of the stage-area. Sunlight glinted off the lids of fifty silver canisters. He raised his hands. The audience quieted.

"We're going to start today."

X

The optic blast blew the door off the bunker. Logan was the first one into the building. Scott and Ororo followed closely behind. Gunfire rained down at them and they dove for cover.

"Storm!" Scott's command wasn't necessary.

The air in the building had already begun to move and he anchored himself to the floor. The winds ripped forward, gathering the opposition within their swirls, squeezing the breath from their lungs and filling them back with dust. The men choked, coughed, wheezed under the pressure and the dirt. She set them back down, topsy-turvy, end over end, until they landed with a sickening _crack!_ on top of some tables.

Scott rushed forward, flipped the men to their stomachs and secured their arms behind them with some of Hank's better restraints.

Logan appeared. "This is it. There ain't no prisoners here. All I can smell are these genetic shits. They must have moved everyone out."

"Mutants!" One man struggled and managed to flip back around; hate screwed up his face into an ugly fleshy mask. It was the last thing he said before Scott knocked him out cold.

"Yeah, that's right," Scott hissed back at the other men, "and we're pissed. So unless, you want me to introduce you to my friend over there—" he tipped his head to Logan. Metal claws three feet long extended from the back of both hands and a feral grin played on the Wolverine's lips. "I suggest you cooperate."

X

"Inside each container is a mutant," Creed gestured to his men to open them. "These mutants are all wearing special collars that inhibit the use of their powers." The cylinders were opened and the men pushed them over, spilling the mutants onto the stage floor. Some could barely move; instead, they curled into the fetal position, covering their faces from the sunlight and, Rogue had absolutely no doubt, the hatred.

She gripped Sam's hand with all her strength only to find that he was doing the very same thing with her. They held their breaths, counting the seconds until they could part from the pack and rescue those poor souls from what was promising to be a farce for an execution. The sickness crawling in her gut almost distracted her away from Creed's next reveal.

Almost.

"But I have an extra special treat for you this time. I had the pleasure of capturing a mutant."

Sam's fingers clenched fiercely about her hand. She jumped at the pain.

"He's special. Not only because he murdered one of our own, but also because he is not wearing a collar. He is completely with his powers." Creed chuckled; it was slow and dangerous. "Now, I'm not about to put my people in any form of harm's way. It's important for you to know that while he still has his powers, he is very much clipped. I made sure of that myself."

She dug at Sam's grip. "Le'go. Ya're hurtin' me."

"Bring out the mutant."

A canister was rolled up from the back of the stage.

Sam pulled Rogue into him. His lips dropped to her ear. "Listen to me. Ya gotta stay calm."

A large man lifted the lid.

She squirmed in his grip, trying to free her hand. "Let go, Sam. What the hell's wrong with you?"

"Ya gotta stay calm, Rogue. Oh gawd, Ah didn't know how to tell ya."

"Tell me what?" and she pulled at white knuckles, tried to twist her wrist away from his hands.

The man kicked over the cylinder. A mutant went sprawling to the front of the stage.

Sam released her, spun her around, and clamped a hand around her chin. "That."

She blinked at him; it was obvious he was scared. He was imploring her to stay calm. He was also directing her face to look beyond him to the stage…

Red and black eyes widened in front of her.

All of the oxygen in the world seemed to dissipate around her. She sucked in air, but it caught on something on its way to her lungs and she choked on it. Sam's hand remained at her chin and she became aware of the heaviness of it. She tried to shake free of his grip, but he tightened his hold, his fingers moving millimeters closer to her mouth, ready, she decided, to finish smothering her if the lack of air didn't do it. But he didn't need to worry…

…she couldn't breathe…

She made little panting noises. Pulling air into shallow little pockets within her lungs and pushing it out again before it did any good. She licked at her lips, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. All the water in her body must have beelined it to her eyes. She reached a hand to her cheek, catching the spillage before it could trail to her chin.

"No." It came out in a pant. She could hardly even hear it in her own head. It seemed so alien. So far away.

Her chin trembled. More air got in that time and she felt the word on her lips once more…a little louder this time. "N-" And the hand was over her mouth, followed by a pair of lips at her ear.

"Ya have t' stay calm. T' rescue him, ya have t' stay calm."

Sam's voice was dull fuzz in her ear.

All she could see was a pair of red on black eyes curving with worry as they stared at her. All she could feel was absolutely nothing. She just stared, feeling dumb, feeling numb, feeling…she had to move, to get to him. She shook her head, gripped at Sam's hand. Stared into Remy's eyes.

There was an imperceptible shake of his head. _No_, he was saying, _don't do anything. Don't let them know what you are._

X

"Sonovabitch!" Scott's fist slammed against the Blackbird's control panel.

Kitty stammered, "Scott, uh, I don't think that's such a good—"

"They're all at that nature preserve!" Scott jumped from his chair and started pacing. "Set the coordinates, Kitty. We needed to be there yesterday!"

Logan stuck a thumb over his shoulder. "You want me to see if there's a shortcut. I don't mind beatin' it out of them." He glanced out the window at the Friend's compound. "I don't know why you didn't just let me kill them."

"X-Men don't kill, Wolverine."

"Fine. But I don't see why we can't make an exception."

"X-Men don't kill…ever."

"Well, then, can X-Men maim? Or is that against your rules too?"

"Check back with me."

X

"Gambit!"

The shout split the air like electricity.

Rogue twisted in Sam's arms, straining her eyes as she searched the crowd. The mob swelled against one another and she watched, fearful, as a bright light pulsated to the top of the crowd. JP's form zoomed across the tops of heads. She heard gunfire erupt around them. He missiled forward, too fast for the bullets to even consider catching him. Within seconds, he was at the stage.

He barreled into the floor.

They watched, stunned, mortified, as two hulking Friends lifted JP from the stage. His palms were bleeding; they had caught the brunt of his fall. One side of his face was skinned and scraped and oozing blood. The Friends shook him. Creed advanced, his eyes hollowed, dark.

"We always have at least one cur in the litter." He kicked JP, making him hunch in pain. The men dropped him. Creed kicked him again. And again.

Rogue twisted her fingers into Sam's shirt, her eyes closing against the act. But she opened them again, forcing herself to search the stage, forcing herself to find Remy's face. Two more Friends were on either side of him. They each held a gun pointed to his head. But she could see the hostility covering his face, his lips twisted into an angry sneer and she could see that it was all he could do to keep his body in the docile position.

"And that 'Friends'," Creed's voice boomed across the loudspeakers once more. "That is why I have power inhibitors built into the mouth of the stage."

Rogue pulled her eyes from Remy and bit down a hiss. JP was lying motionless on the stage floor. Blood splatter surrounded him. She felt Sam's body tense beside her. Felt the pressure of his power pounding under his skin. Felt that familiar tickle as her powers began to awaken from their drug-induced coma.

Creed flittered his hand in the air and the men lifted JP's lifeless form from the stage. He waggled his fingers and Remy was kicked forward.

X

He fell against the wood, his palm smacking into JP's blood. He curled his fingers into a fist, the tightness ran up his arm, across his chest, down his legs. His anger owned him. He ground his teeth, crunching his hatred, swallowing it, but not forgetting it. He raised his head to look up at Creed. He wished his powers were with him. He'd grab hold of Creed's clothing and not let go until that monster was nothing more than a burning blob of flesh. His eyes were hooded, slanted with the anger he was crushing. He was surprised they weren't glowing. Damn inhibitor field.

Creed grinned. "Friend of yours?"

He could have killed him on the spot. Ripped that self-satisfied smirk clean off his face. He could do it with his bare hands. If it were only about him. If he was the only one. If there weren't several dozen other lives at risk.

"You piece of shit. I'm gonna watch you die."

Creed kneeled, put his face inches from Remy. "I find that very unlikely." He stood, beckoned to his henchmen. "Take him to the start." Then, turning to the crowd, he raised his hands. "Ladies and gentlemen, choose your weapons. The hunt will begin in 20 minutes!"

X

"What?!" Ororo's voice echoed through the belly of the Blackbird. She pressed trembling palms to her face. "What happened?"

Xavier was solemn. "We don't know everything, Ororo. Betsy only—I only have part of the story. She's trying to find out the rest, but it seems that JP's been captured."

"How?" Tears streamed down her cheeks. "How could this happen? I mean, what…" Dropping her face, she buried it in her arms, her shoulders shaking against the sobs. "First Remy. Now Jean Paul. I can't—I can't—oh, goddess! I can't breathe."

Kitty placed a comforting hand on her former teacher's shoulder. "How did they catch him?"

Casting a glance toward Scott, Xavier cleared his throat. "I believe he was caught off-guard by Remy's capture."

"What?" Ororo raised her head. "You mean the shock of seeing his little brother in the hands of terrorists unnerved him?" She was on her feet and in front of Scott within seconds. Her hands balled into fists and she hammered them against the stoic leader's chest. "I told you! I told you this was a bad idea! I told you not to send them in blind!"

Ororo's eyes flashed, the blueness leaked away and only an eerie white was left. Her powers were in use. The air temperature dropped and Kitty could see her breath. She inched toward the doorway.

"If either one of them dies, Scott, it will be on your head." Lightning, tiny but fatal, flickered within fragmented clouds beneath Ororo's hands. "I swear to you. I will avenge them if they do."

Scott's visor flickered a warning. "X-Men don't kill."

Ororo's lips curled savagely. "Then I won't be one."

X

Remy slumped against a tree. He'd been running for near a half hour. His shoulder was throbbing, his lungs were burning, and he was out in the middle of fuckin' nowhere. He covered his mouth with his hands, trying to smother the sounds of his breathing. He had hoped to have some sort of plan by now, but seeing his brother beaten and dragged off to who knew where sort of took it out of him. He had only one agenda now. If he was going to die by these bastards, he was going to make sure and take as many of them out with him as he could.

Realistically, he knew there was a good chance that nothing would come from him. That he'd be simply picked off and left for dead among the weeds. He knew that his team would look for him. He knew that they'd try to save him, but the odds were not in his favor. There were too many stakes. Too many lives at risk. His team had to save whomever they could. Whoever they got to. And it needed to be the weak before the strong.

Sure, he had a blasted shoulder. Sure, he'd been mishandled and mistreated.

But he'd only been in the Friends' possession for a few short days. Who knew how long those other poor souls had been tortured?

Besides, he had an agenda now. And rescue—as much as he would appreciate it—sort of blew the shit out of that.

He rolled his neck, stilled his breathing, and let his empathy reach through the vegetation. He grimaced. Empathy was not a fantastic thing to have when surrounded by hate mongers. Though, it did, definitely, keep him out of their way. He curved it about, focusing it, looking for sporadic emotions of fear and hate.

They blasted back to him, and he stilled himself against the tree. There was a mutant with a Friend closing in. They weren't far off, maybe ten or so yards. He moved toward them, his empathy guiding him, leading him to round in front so that he would meet the mutant first.

The mutant was barely a man. Nineteen-years-old tops. He was scrawny and bruised and his eyes were sunken. He looked so near to giving up. When he saw Remy, he drew in a breath, but said nothing, just stood completely frozen, as if he was waiting to be killed.

Remy shook his head, pulled the man by the wrist, pushed him forward, toward a trail where no empathic vibrations came. His voice was low, rushed. "What can you do?"

The boy-man shook his head, his hand fingering the large collar about his neck. "I-I can't—"

"Don't move."

The tip of his finger glowed. He glanced over his shoulder toward the tidal wave of hate quickly approaching. Grabbing the collar, he tilted it, examined it. Shook his head and grinned. All the technology in the world, and it was a simple lock. He pushed his finger into the keyhole, melting the tumblers, weakening the connection, making the metal malleable. It stretched under his strength and then he slipped it over the mutant's head.

"What can you do?" he asked again, more urgently this time. He could sense the oncoming hunters with his empathy, and his ears weren't letting him down either.

"I—I can make plants grow."

_Couldn't have been a strong one, could he?_

"Oh."

"Fast. Like instantaneously. As big as I want."

A bullet pinged the dirt nearby, and Remy pushed the young man forward. The shouts were ugly, taunting, but the Friends had yet to emerge from the foliage. More bullets. More yelling. And then, faces—twisted, sneering faces popping from the plants like freakish flowers. Remy gripped the collar in his hands, felt the tingle of his powers, and watched happily as the collar glowed magenta. Throwing it like a Frisbee, he pushed the other mutant to the dirt, shielding him with his own body. The collar hit in the middle of the group of three and exploded on contact, wilting them forever.

The two mutants scrambled up from the dirt. Remy pulled the younger one to his feet.

"Come t' t'ink of it, dis oughtta be like ya're playground. Ev'rybody wit'in a five-mile radius prob'ly heard dat explosion. We need cover. Buy us some time until we get rescued."

The mutant shook his head. "Nobody's gonna rescue us. You saw what happened during the assembly."

Remy felt the anger wind through him, but he pushed it down, crunched it again. "Yeah, dat I did. But I saw more den just dat. We gotta buy time. I got some friends on deir way. Trouble is, dey got deir hands full. See, dey're not just comin' here for me. Dey gotta get all de mutants out. An' I gotta help 'em. I need cover. _You_ need cover."

Shaking, the mutant raised his hands. The ground rumbled beneath them, then split open against a tidal wave of green. The shoots were as thick as arms with thorns like fingers. They rolled over one another, coiling in and out, and knotting themselves around pre-existing vegetation until they stood slightly taller than the men.

Remy nodded. "Hmm. Not bad."

"It won't stop them."

"Doesn't have to. Just has to slow 'em down." He stopped, felt the pull of familiar feelings. "You gotta name?"

"Justin."

"_Bon._ De Friends are everywhere. But I got it on good aut'ority dat de good guys are coming in from de south." He pointed the way. "Now listen, dis is important. Dey'll be dressed in crazy black leather get-ups like rejects from an S & M shop. When you see dem, you tell 'em, 'jokers are wild.' An' den you go wit' dem. Do whate'er de hell dey want. Got me?"

"But—what about the Friends?"

Remy looked him up and down. "You got de gift. Use it." And he disappeared through the trees.

X

The Friend dropped to the earth. Sam pulled him to a tree, slumped his body against the trunk, and pulled a pile of brush over him. He glanced at Rogue and watched as she squashed down the persona she had just absorbed. She curled and uncurled her hands, worked the anger out in microbursts so that she could maintain control. She didn't want a repeat of what happened with Dane—the sheer explosiveness of his personality had been too much to control—she couldn't lose control again. There was too much at stake. Too many lives. Besides, she owed Remy. He had rescued her; given her control, or at least made it possible for Hank to help her. And even on that stage, when she could have found some way to rescue him—even with the inhibitor wall, he had urged her to stay guarded…to stay safe.

She hissed, pulled the new personality to the forefront, then pitched it back as far as it could go, letting it crash into the steadfast barriers of her Id. These things she used as beacons to protect her identity. One moved forward, and she hesitated. Yes, it was okay, she decided. He was one of her locks. He was a silent protector of her spirit…even when he didn't know it. If something happened to him…she dragged the new psyche up by the ankle. It dangled before her mind's eye. She reached into its brain, pulling away at the hatred, scrubbing the anger out until the only thing left was cold hard facts. She couldn't deal with the emotions of a bigot; she needed uncomplicated coolness…

Sam rubbed his hands together, a nervous habit that belied his outward calm. He cleared his voice. "Anythin' useful?"

She sucked in an unsteady breath and let it out. "Ah got the layout. They studied it to make it easier to…hunt."

Sam sucked in his cheeks, nodded at the inert body. "How long will he be out?"

"'Til round nightfall. He didn't see me, so if he wakes up and we're still here, he won't make the connection."

"We'd better not be here."

The relative quiet of the preserve split at the sound of gunfire. Sam hit the dirt and Rogue followed a millisecond behind.

"Shit!" Sam's face was angry and she could see the weeks of the mission had begun to take a toll on his nerves. "Damn it! We should be there!"

She nodded and closed her eyes, bringing an image of the preserve's map to mind. "That's southwest of here. It's all wooded. The trail's several yards away. We can cut through the creek and it might—"

_KABOOM!_

She was on her feet in a second, Sam trailing behind her, grabbing at her arm, pulling her down beside him in the dirt. She fought him. She fought him with everything she had. Her fists striking him again and again as tears ran down her cheeks. She had to get away, to get to that sound.

"That was him! Damn it, Sam! Let me go! That was him!" She was pleading now, pushing at him, begging him to let her up. "Ah have to make sure he's okay!"

Sam shook her. "Stop it," he ordered. "Ya're out of ya're mind. Ya cain't just walk over there. First of all, you don't know what's goin' on. And second, he might not know it's you. He might just throw some damn bomb and blow you to hell."

"Ya're wrong. He'd know it's me. He always knows me." She licked her lips, her eyes wild. "Ah'm sorry, Sam, but Ah have to do this."

She kissed him.

X

The Blackbird landed unceremoniously on the southern tip of the preserve. This was despite the fact that several hundred members of the Friends of Humanity were all well-within earshot of its massive jet engines. It dropped from the sky, hovering momentarily above a clearing in the woods, before setting down a little rough for Scott's liking. But as he and his team emerged from the drop-down ramp, he had to admit that he'd take a rougher-than-normal landing against a swarm of armed bigots any day.

Scott scanned the clearing. "They must all be in the woods."

Kitty nodded, licking her lips nervously. "How are we going to hide the Blackbird? It's not like we can just leave it out here like this. I'm pretty sure that a jet in the middle of nowhere would raise eyebrows."

Hank patted her shoulder. "Never fear, Kitty dear. I have been working on a major piece of technology. It occurred to me that there must be a way to create a cloaking device that could successfully fragment the sun's rays and then distribute them in a manner that would render the object, for lack of a better word, invisible."

Logan thumbed over his shoulder. "You want me to chop down some trees and cover the 'Bird with 'em?"

Scott nodded.

Lorna crushed her smile with her fist. "Don't worry, Hank. I'm sure that the trees will bend the sun's light just fine."

"Cheeky."

Kitty shook her head. "I think it's fascinating, Hank. I just don't think we're in such a great place for a trial-run."

He sighed. "Maybe next time."

Gunfire filled the air. Lorna used the Earth's magnetic field to lift herself into the sky, just above the tree line. "I can't see anything!"

An explosion ripped through the forest. Scott could see the magenta fire swell against impact and felt the earth pitch. Logan growled beside him.

"Gambit."

Scott gritted his teeth. "That was his mutant signature. He's still alive and he has use of his power."

"Two out of three ain't bad."

"Yeah, well, let's get our asses in there and make that third one a rescue."

X

Ororo slammed her fist against the wall. Lightning crackled ominously in her eyes. "I do not agree with this, Charles! I should be out there! This is my family, for goddess' sakes! My brothers are—"

"That is precisely the reason why Scott and I agreed that you should stay with me in the Blackbird. We are the medical team this mission. It is necessary that someone be on hand to attend to the medical emergencies that will occur. We are the next line of defense."

She curled her lip into a sneer and then raised her eyes to the ceiling. "I could kill, Charles. If one of those maniacs hurts them…"

He let out a breath, placed a hand on her arm. "I know, Ororo. And I know how you would feel the very next instant. This is not only for the good of the mission, this is for the good of you."

X

It felt good to move, Remy decided, and allowed himself the pleasure of a nice neck roll. He winced against the pain in his shoulder, but blew it out with each exhale. The terrain was okay for hiding—a lot of tree cover, and the brush was just high enough that he could use it as easy camouflage. The ground was covered with tree litter—branches, sticks, dried leaves—which crunched under even the smallest of weights. That was a double-edged sword. Sure, he could hear someone coming, but so could they. Even with his immense skill as a thief, he couldn't keep the air from soaking up the sounds of his movements. The fact that he was wounded probably didn't help him.

It didn't' matter though. He still had his power. His empathy allowed him to feel another approaching, and his kinetic ability? Well, he had better accuracy with it then the morons did with their heavy artillery. And he was going to use it to mop the forest floor with Creed.

A blast of hatred caught him square in the chest and he sunk into the brush, his breathing quieting so as not to give away his presence. Two FOH members crashed through the woods, meters away from him. One was tall and dark with dreadlocks that spilled to his shoulders, the other, had red hair and a splash of freckles across his nose. They swept the area with their eyes, pointing their guns in front of them and scanning the grass with the guns' tips. They nodded to each other, silently signaled to move forward, and disappeared through the bramble.

He began to move, but stopped and squeezed his eyes closed. _Damn it!_ He swore to himself as he turned around and followed behind the two men. He needed to find Creed; he didn't have time to chase down every Friend he saw. But the thought of them getting their hooks on anyone else nauseated him down to his core. Better to catch them now while they were still inactively hunting…

_Pop!_

He froze, closed his eyes, and listened.

_Pop! Pop!_

It was from the direction the men had gone.

_Pop! Pop! Pop!_

He slipped through the thicket, his feet crunching on the forest floor. He pushed branches out of his way, stooped to the ground, and cupped two handfuls of dirt and pebbles. He navigated his way back to the wall of vegetation, his powers at the ready to turn his harmless handfuls into explosives.

Instead, he ducked.

Redhead soared over him and crashed into a tree. The _crack!_ rattled the tree and possibly broke the man's back. He lay there, unmoving. Remy peered a bit closer to see if he was still breathing. He was. And Remy deliberated what to do next.

He decided to duck again.

Dreadlocks followed his buddy and Remy winced at the impact.

He turned at the sound of movement coming from the brush around him, sending out a curling tendril of empathy toward the noise.

"That'll teach ya t' go shootin' at a lady." She stepped from the bramble, dusting her jeans off with the palms of her hands. "Next time, Ah'll—" she stopped; green eyes wide and glorious like the Mississippi on a burning day.

He stood with his arms hanging at his sides. They were like weights, pulling him down, holding him to that spot. He felt the corners of his lips tug, felt a slow smile slide onto his face. His heart swelled with her emotions, burst with his.

He licked his lips, stuck a thumb over his shoulder at the prostrated men. "These guys givin' ya any trouble?"

Her eyes shone with unshed tears and he felt the sob before she even made it. Her breath caught with her voice, "R-R-emy."

And he crossed the distance in two strides.

She melted into him, her tears flowing freely as he held her. His lips kissed the top of her head and she raised her face to his. Her cheek was soft against the stubble on his chin. He rubbed his own cheek to hers, loving the smoothness of her skin. He loosened his grip, and dragged his hands from her back to her face. He cupped her cheeks and stared into her eyes.

"You okay?" His voice was all at once soft and hard.

She nodded and closed her eyes against the brush of his thumb. "Ah didn't mean it." It was a rushed whisper.

He stopped, looked down at her. His eyes moving over her body, checking for blood. "Whaddaya mean? You hurt?"

"No," she shook her head, fresh tears spilling from her eyes. "No, Ah didn't mean it when Ah said Ah didn't love you. Gawd, Remy, Ah—oh, Ah think Ah always loved you." She covered her eyes, swiping at the tears. "It's probably too late now."

"Look at me." The order was firm but soft. She raised her eyes. "Even if I couldn't touch you…" his voice broke, he swallowed. Raising his hands from her shoulders, he wrapped them in her hair. "Oh, Rogue," he continued, his hands cupping her face through the curtain of auburn, "I'd rather spend a lifetime not touching you than one more second touching anyone else."

She let out a breath. "Oh, Remy…Remy!"

"What a terribly sweet admission, mutant." Creed sneered from his place behind him, the cold metal barrel of a gun pressed firmly into the base of Remy's skull.

Remy's hands slid from her face back to her shoulders, his fingers digging into her shoulder blades. His eyes narrowed. "Enjoyed dat, did ya?" His tone seemed flippant, but Rogue could hear the strain beneath it.

Creed chuckled. It was a low, ugly thing. "Yes. It was almost human, your emotion. Pity you monstrosities can't truly feel." He pressed the gun against Remy's skull, screwing it into his skin. "Or perhaps I've been wrong all this time? Perhaps you _things_ do have the capacity for the finer parts of humanity. Doesn't matter now." His mouth curled into an evil grin. "You and your race will be eradicated. The Friends will not stop until God's justice has been served."

"And what justice is dat?" Remy spat. "Murder? Last time I checked, _mon ami_, dat was one of de no-no's."

He waved it away. "A minor dilemma. An insignificant one to be sure. We are doing God's work. We are ridding the world of evil. We—the _humans_—we were the ones made in his image. What image do mutants copy?" He laughed. "I have dreamed of a world free of mutant swine since I was a child. I have fought my entire life to achieve that dream. Isn't it funny, mutant, how one man's dream can be another's nightmare? Now, I'm going to kill you, mutant." He sent a disdainful look at Rogue. "Then I will kill _her_."

"I don't t'ink dat's a dream you're going to achieve."

Creed's face changed. "What are you doing?" The gun was glowing a dangerous magenta. He pulled it away from them, his hand shaking against the heat.

Pushing Rogue in front of him, Remy ran. "Go! Go! Go!" He yelled, his hands hard against her back. She ran. Her legs strained beneath her; her feet crunched across sticks and leaves. She felt her hair catch on outstretched limbs, felt thorns slice through her skin. He was passing her, his hands now gripping her upper arm. And suddenly, he was pulling her beside him, his muscles taut and tight, his face filled with fear. She felt warmth spread through her chest, felt the surge of Sam's power in her legs. She returned Remy's grip and curled into him before cannonballing away from the blast.

* * *

First off, I'd like to thank everyone who has read and reviewed this story. I also want to thank those people who have stayed by this story even though I have taken an unforgiveably long time to update. The truth is it has been a very eventful year and a half and I am crazy busy ALL of the time. But, I have not forgotten this story, and I am so happy to see that many of you have not either. Thank you for the words of encouragement and I hope that this chapter was worth, at least, part of the wait.

Will Sam kill Rogue when he awakens from his power-induced coma? Did Remy really blow up Creed? Where is JP and is he alright? Have any other mutants been rescued? Where are the telepaths when you need one? Will Ororo completely disregard the X-Men's 'no kill' policy? How close is Hank to creating a way to make the Blackbird appear invisible? Is there another kiss is the future? Will I manage to update this story before another year goes by? ;) Stick around 'til the end. We are almost there!


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

_I will be the death of you_

Breaking Benjamin, Breath

Sucking in air like it was water, he pushed himself further through the woods toward the south, toward what he hoped was rescue. That's what the mutant had told him, right? That his friends were here to rescue them all, right? That they were coming in from the south. His legs burned; they felt like jelly. He hadn't used them in over a month. Not since he'd been captured.

He could hear the threshing of vegetation behind him. He threw a glance over his shoulder and bristled when he saw the steel barrel emerge first. He pushed his hands behind him and focused on the earth, on the roots beneath the ground. In his mind's eye, he could see the dormant seeds; see the mazes of tiny tubes that pulled sustenance from the earth. They were strong, thick in some places, wiry in others, but all strong. He slipped into the brush, held his breath, and looked toward the gun. Three more had emerged behind the first. Now, he lifted his hands once more, waking those seeds, alerting those roots, and calling to them both for help.

The ground rumbled. The four Friends looked wildly around, each one lashing out against the earth, cursing its movement, and cursing its existence. They shouted obscenities, daring Mother Nature to obliterate them. Beneath the soil, the roots came, shooting up like waterless torpedoes. They tangled. They snarled. They ripped. Curling around the men, the onslaught separated them from their weapons, pushing those guns higher to the sky, beyond their reach. They curled around ankles and calves, anchoring the men to the ground they had challenged.

He looked again, caught his breath, and allowed himself to feel a tiny burst of pride at the way his power had helped him. Then he was up again, pumping air through lungs that felt like bursting and pushing blood across muscles of burning lead.

Within minutes, he was at a clearing.

Was it his imagination, or was there a large jet at the other end?

X

"Storm!" The professor's hand went to his forehead. "Someone is approaching."

She was beside him in a second. "Is it a mutant?"

His eyes had rolled up under the lids. She blew out an impatient breath.

"Yes," came the answer. "And I'm afraid there are some Friends not far behind him."

She nodded, a gust of wind pushed her toward the ramp. She was outside a second later. Scanning the area, she saw the young man. He was sickly and yellow, but there was a determination on his face. She motioned to him and called upon the wind to carry her out toward him. He was half way across when she noticed a rustling in the grasses on the edge of the clearing.

The gust picked up, sending her straight to the boy—he couldn't have been old enough to buy alcohol—and she landed next to him. Pushing on his shoulder, she ordered, "Get down!"

He fell to the ground, just as she lifted into the sky.

Gunfire sounded.

And she felt the anger within her swell. She evaded the bullets and raised her hands to the heavens. The clouds, once white and puffy, turned gray, and lightning crackled between them. The Friends were frozen to their spots, mystified by the woman with swirling silver locks and by how quickly the weather seemed to change before them. She looked down on them, her eyes clouded over with whiteness, and pointed.

_Zzzziiiippppttttffffff!_ A jagged trail of light cut through the air like a serrated knife and split the earth in front of the men. They fell back, the sheer force knocking them from their feet. Next came a whirlwind, banging them against one another, pushing and pulling them into a nice little bundle. They'd lost their weapons with the lightning, but the way the air sucked at them, they were sure next they would lose their lives.

She raised her hands and they couldn't feel the ground anymore. She wanted to lift them as high as she could. She wanted to lift them and then listen as they fell to their deaths. She hated them. She hated how they treated those that were different. She hated how they had hurt her family. She hated how they were hunting this poor boy. Oh, she hated them.

But she wasn't a murderer.

And it killed her a little that she couldn't avenge all the lives that they had harmed.

So she found the tallest tree and haphazardly dropped them into it.

Just because she wasn't a murderer didn't mean she had to be delicate.

She lowered herself to where the boy was cowering.

"You didn't kill them."

She wondered if he was accusing her of weakness.

"No," she breathed, steadying her anger, trying to regain that composure that was so necessary. "No, I did not."

"Why not?" He asked, grabbing her outstretched hand and pulling himself to his feet.

"Because I found another way."

"What if they get down?"

"I guess I'll drop them into a lake."

"I can help." And he outstretched his hands and Ororo watched while the tree's branches wrapped themselves around the Friends, holding them captive. "It'll hold them a little longer anyway."

She offered him a tired smile. "You look hungry. We have food and we'll protect you."

"Who are you?"

"We're the X-Men."

"I-I think I have a message for you."

She helped him up the ramp. "A message? From whom?"

"I-I don't know his name. He just said something about jokers being wild."

She stopped, her hand wrapping tightly around the boy's arm. "'Jokers are wild'?" Her eyes were wide and her voice had raised an octave.

He shook his head, his own eyes mimicking hers. "Y-yes. Is-is that okay?"

Her hands caught her tears. "Oh, thank goddess! Remy!" And she slumped against the wall at the top of the ramp and cried.

X

Under normal circumstances she would probably like flying. Sam's power, however, could hardly be viewed as 'normal'. There was very little normal about feeling like half of your body was on fire. That wasn't really a fair description. It wasn't that cannonballing hurt or that it felt like her skin was being peeled off from heat. It was the pressure that accompanied his power that made her feel uneasy. She wondered how he didn't throw up after each trip.

Her stomach was in knots as she sucked in a breath and abruptly crash-landed in a blackberry bush. The branches scratched her cheeks and she fought to free her tangled hair. Remy was beside her, a few leaves were sticking out the side of his head. He was watching her with his dark eyes, a faint grin pressing on the corners of his mouth. He was worn though. She could see the weariness etched in the shadows under his eyes. Then she noticed his shoulder.

Her hand flew to her mouth as she smothered her own gasp. "Oh, dear God. What did they do to you?" She gingerly touched the crimson stain. "We've got to get you to the Blackbird. This has got to be looked at."

The hiss frightened her. And when he grabbed her hand, she felt her heart stop. He was grimacing, but his grip was like steel. He saw her face, saw the fear in her eyes and slightly released his hold. "_Desole_," he whispered. "Sonuvabitch burns like a mother fucker." He traced his fingers down her cheek. "I need ya t' do somethin' for me, Rogue. I need ya to promise you'll do it."

She narrowed her eyes. "Ah ain't promisin' nothin'. Not til you tell me what it is."

He chuckled, pushed his palm into her cheek, and coaxed her to relax into him. "I want you to go to the Blackbird. I don't want you to come out until all the fightin' is done."

She slapped him.

He growled at her. "What de fuck, woman?! What do you t'ink dis is? Some kind of game? Get on dat damn jet so dat I know you're safe." He grabbed for her shoulders, she struggled out of his grip. "Damn it! Don't you understand? I won't be able to take it if something happens to you."

The Mississippi roared back at him. "An' what if somethin' happens to you? An' Ah'm not there to help? Y'know fer all your suave charm, you're a sexist pig. Do you really think Ah can just go an' sit an' wait to see if you're all right? That Ah'm some wilting daisy? Ah'm gonna cower in the back of the Bird while mah man is out here with a bunch o' raving psychos? An' what the hell're you smilin' at?"

He was, too. Like a Cheshire cat.

"Ya're man, huh?" His dimples winked at her.

She felt her cheeks warm under his gaze. Squirming, she plucked a blackberry from a devastated branch and shoved it into her mouth. If she'd been watching, she'd have seen his eyes widened by a fraction. The berry popped in her mouth, its juice whetting her thirst. She glanced up at him from under long, sooty eyelashes.

She swallowed. "Well, Ah—m-meant—"

His mouth crushed into hers. She sighed. Kissing him was like being on fire, a wonderful, warm, sensual fire. It started in her belly and flamed out to her fingers and toes until her whole body was hot and aching and … oh, _wonderful_. She felt his fingers tangling her hair, felt him pulling her closer, felt his tongue flickering against her own. She curled her arms around his neck. He pulled his lips away and leaned his forehead against hers.

"I must be some kind of freak."

Her brow furrowed. "What?"

"Here we are wit' all o' dis death and destruction around us. An' all I could t'ink was how much I wanted to kiss you." He ran a finger down her cheek; it sent chills down her spine. "Girl, I cain't even t'ink when I'm around you."

"Ah get that a lot."

"Very funny." He leaned back, his eyes closing for a long moment, and she saw how dead tired he actually was. "I _am_ a sexist pig."

"What?"

"I never used to be, but dammit, if you haven't made me one. See, I got dis crazy _need_ to protect you an' if ya're out here wit' de bullets flyin' an' me droppin' bombs, I ain't doin' dat."

She cocked her head and squared her jaw. "Listen, Sparky, Ah'm an X-Man. Ah don' need ya're permission—"

"Anna Marie," it was low and soft and made her insides gel. His eyes were open and he was staring at her in a way that made her head feel like he was tickling her brain with a feather. His eyes were bright red swirls that sucked her down into their pulsating swells. Over and under the different shades of brilliant crimson collapsed into themselves, pulling her with them, through them, until she didn't know which way was up or down or sideways. Then, across the rising red tide, she heard him speaking to her; it was singsong, the glorious melody of his voice keeping time to her heart's beat. It enchanted her, made her want to sing along, to dance and sway and spin like his eyes.

"Anna Marie, I need you to get to the Blackbird. I want you to use whatever of Sam's power you got left. I don't want you to stop; I don't want you to look back; I don't want you to even think about me until you are inside that jet and safe. I need you to be safe. If ya're not safe, neither am I. Oh, _chére_, do you understand?"

She was looking at him with unseeing eyes. Her lips were turned upward in a pleasant grin, but she nodded and a second later, Sam's power was pushing her into the sky.

X

"Well, don't it just get better and better?"

"Can it, Wolverine."

"Oh, I'll can it. I'll can it right up your ass. I already got three adamantium ones ready to go."

"Perhaps, we should turn our attention to the gang of weapon-wielding bigots surrounding us and save all our inner turmoil for couple's therapy."

Wolverine glanced at Beast and shrugged. "Fine. I got time. After I take care of their scrawny asses, I'll deal with Four-Eyes here."

Cyclops' visor glowed ominously. "Try it Metal-Head and I'll shoot straight to your bones and let them get nice and hot. At what temperature does adamantium melt?"

"Shut-up!" One of the Friends fired a shot into the air. He kept his gaze level and lowered the gun to point on the scene in front of him. "Whaddaya think, Gary? I don't remember seeing these guys at the beginning."

Another man piped up. "No, they don't look like they came out of no trashcan. And check-out what they're wearin'. What's Creed got goin' on?"

Still another man responded. "Who the hell cares? A mutant's a mutant. An' the only good one is a dead one." He cocked his gun.

"Cyke?" Logan's claws looked ready to pop.

"Look, men, we don't want any trouble—"

"Well, you've got it, brother. We're tired of your kind comin' in and trying to pass for human. You're just animals that resemble us."

"Devils."

"Shoot the blue one first."

Beast rolled his eyes. "It's always 'shoot the blue one first'. The irony being that though I may look bestial and unintelligent, I probably have an IQ greater than all of you ignoramuses combined."

"That's it, Blue, taunt them."

"Enough is enough! I say we kill 'em now and sort 'em later."

They leveled their guns and gasped as an unseeable force ripped them from their grips.

"What the f--!"

The guns whirled around. The men looked wildly about, hands going into the air, as they stared up the barrels of their own weapons.

A woman with green hair floated to the ground. "'Lo gentlemen."

"Nice trick."

"Thanks, it's an old one." She turned to look at the Friends. "Now, I think you're going to answer a whole lotta questions."

One of the men spat on the ground in front of her. "Mutant bitch."

The gun in front of him cocked. Polaris smiled. "This isn't baseball. You only get two strikes before you're out for good."

X

Xavier patted the mutant on the shoulder. "You've been through quite enough for one lifetime, young man."

"Justin."

Smiling, Xavier extended his hand. "Nice to meet you, Justin." He chewed his lip for a moment before asking, "Did they feed you while you were their prisoner?"

The young man shrugged. "Just a little. Like bread and water."

"There is a refrigerator in the back of the medlab, but you must be careful. Eat an orange. You'll need the vitamin C to help prevent scurvy. But only eat one for right now. We don't want to send your body into shock." He stopped, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

Justin gripped his shoulder. "Sir? Sir, are you all right?"

Ororo pushed into the room. "What is it? Professor?"

Xavier shook his head. "Someone's approaching. And they're coming in fast."

Steel blue eyes swirled with electricity. "Friend or foe."

"Friend…but something's not right."

Ororo ran for the ramp and used a gust to carry her into the sky. She narrowly missed the hurtling cannonball.

Rogue didn't stop until her feet were planted firmly on the ramp.

"Oh, thank the goddess! Rogue, what's happening out there?"

The young southern woman didn't answer. Instead, she plodded up the ramp, a blank look plastered across her features.

Ororo followed her. "Rogue? Rogue? What is wrong with you?"

"She's under some form of mind control. It's not extremely powerful. It's starting to fade." He sighed, his head shaking as realization dawned. "It's almost as if she's been—"

Ororo closed her eyes. "Charmed."

X

So he was a rat bastard.

What else was new?

It wasn't like he had done it to…acquire…some rare piece of jewelry. It wasn't like he was lying…or stealing…or coveting… Though _technically_ he was sure that taking away someone's freedom of choice was probably not looked upon positively, it wasn't like he had done any of the big sins. Well, not yet, anyway. But once he found JP, anyone that was in his way was going to regret ever standing there.

But he couldn't have her with him. Not when he knew that he could lose her again. And this time, there wouldn't be any tailing her at the airport or sending empathic tractor beams to her room. These _Friends_, he sneered at the name, were out for blood. Mutant blood. And the more they spilled the happier and crazier they would become. He couldn't take the risk of exposing her the way JP had been exposed. And he knew, he knew that if it hadn't been for Sam clamping his hand on her mouth (an act which, at the time, made him want to beat the living shit out of the Kentuckian), she'd have lost her composure the same as his brother had.

He couldn't run the risk.

He wouldn't risk her.

Though he knew that if he made it out of this alive, she'd probably kill him. But it would be the kind of death he could deal with. Anything at her hands would be magical, even if she was gouging him with a hot poker.

His shoulder was killing him. It ached and burned; his muscles felt like they were separating from the bone.

He sent a curl of empathy beyond the brush and trees of his sight and breathed a sigh of relief when it came back benign. The ground crunched beneath his weight and he pushed past the branches of an evergreen. He felt ridiculous walking through the uneven terrain when a nice footpath lay nearby. He shook his head and ducked between bushes. Another empathic scout dipped and swayed and scooted across the expanse, peeking in at the emotions of others before backtracking in on itself and allowing Remy the insight he required for safety. This time the flare of hatred scalded him and he sank into a crouch within a thorny bush. Heavy footsteps plodded past and while he wanted nothing more than to send an arsenal of tiny pebble-bombs toward the Friend, he locked his fingers and held his breath and focused on his mission. He had to get to JP. And he needed to do it in a manner that at least resembled a covert operation.

Once he had JP, then he could blow the place to hell.

He closed his eyes and focused on his initial escape from the stage area. If he was remembering correctly, then the amphitheater wasn't too far away. Now, normally, there would be no question. Remy had a mind like a steel trap when it came to mapping exits and remembering them. However, this was not like a typical job. This was a fucking massacre and he wasn't exactly in his best working order. His shoulder was cursing him, and damn it if his stomach wasn't shrieking at a comparable level.

More empathy. More hatred. And he dropped into a covered ditch.

He was close. He'd been through this area before. Thirty feet or so and he'd be right up on the amphitheater. He only hoped that most of the Friends were out and about and looking throughout the woods for their mutant prey and not hunkering down and protecting base camp. And he hoped JP was still at the reserve. He wouldn't have a clue where to find him if they'd already carted him off.

X

Some people were really good with words.

For instance, Hank could weave a web with his endless strings of adjectives and adverbs. He was almost mythical with his prepositional phrases and gerund clauses. A true artist. Webster, himself, would probably flush with envy at Hank's oratorical prowess.

Yep, some people were really good with words.

Logan? Not so much.

And he was okay with that.

He clarified that feeling with the _snikt!_ of his claws.

"I don't know about the rest of you," he snarled, his eyes narrowing in an ominous fashion, "but I've about had enough of Mr. Nice Guy talk. If you dip-shits aren't going to tell the nice lady what she wants to know, fine by me. I've wanted a good excuse to cut off your heads all evening."

His lips curled into a snarl. "Ask 'em again, darlin'. If you don't like the answer, I'll chop 'em into firewood."

Cyclops pinched the bridge of his nose, but didn't say anything.

Polaris half-grinned. "You know, Wolvie? I don't think they believe you. And I'm tired of wasting my time. If they can't help themselves, they're certainly not going to help us. I say do it, and we'll bury the bodies."

"Fine by me." He grabbed one of the men by the back of his neck and pulled back a fist of fully extended claws.

"Stop!" The men shouted in unison.

Wolverine's arm froze in mid-swing. He rolled his eyes, his snarl turning into a scowl. "What the hell?!"

"We don't know where the mutant is. Okay?" one of the men started. "Creed released him out into the reserve first. Didn't see which way he went. The other one. The one that we caught during the assembly. He's—damn it, Gary, where the hell'd you guys put him?"

"I ain't no puss. I'm not saying a damn thing."

"I got two kids, asshole. He's got fuckin' metal claws. Tell him. I want to see my kids again."

"I ain't no puss."

"Tell him or I'll kill you myself!"

"Fine!" Gary turned yellow-brown eyes filled with hate to Polaris' green ones. "We got a nice 'frigerator truck in the back of the stage. Keepin' him on ice for Creed."

"We need to alert the rest of the team." Cyclops began securing one the men's hands.

Wolverine rolled his eyes. "What do you want? Smoke signals?"

Cyclops stopped and tapped the small 'X' insignia on his chest. The communication link lit up. "Professor, we need a psychic link up to the team. We think we know where JP is."

"Yeah," Wolverine added, pulling Gary up by his collar, "unless Gair here's tellin' us a line o' shit. Half of me hopes he is, 'cause there's nothin' I want more than to rip one of these assholes' heads off."

X

She had a lovely warm feeling in her chest. Like a blossoming flower, the warmth spread throughout her body, starting in her heart and moving in pulsating little ripples out to her limbs. It was nice. Comfortable. And she felt enveloped in the coziness of that heat. It relaxed her, made her feel secure, safe, like every ill-gotten emotion was someone else's memory and that she didn't have a care in the world. She hugged herself and breathed in the fresh air. It was warm as well, and smelled of the great outdoors. Peppermint, cedar, and humid, southern air blended together and tickled her nose. She let the scents mingle and reveled at how full and pleasant her lungs felt when filled with the air. It was different than the air in New York. It was a different kind of heavy; the humidity made it thicker, harder to breathe, but it felt so good compared to the smoggier air of the metropolis.

There just wasn't anything like home.

Home was humidity and heat. Home was the Mississippi lazily curling against the riverbed on a quiet day or thrashing and crashing in a frenzied fight when the weather changed. Home was fried chicken, fresh greens, and a chocolate cake the size of her head. Home was southern accents that slid off the tongue like thick molasses onto pancakes; strong, thick, liquid sugar that spun itself into cotton candy and melted on the tongues of tourists. Home was music: fast and flashy, the kind that pumped pure sex and made sweat drip from the hairlines or it was so slow and exact that it ached for touch and dragged fingertips across each steady pulse.

She felt her lips curl into a small smile and a half-sigh, half-chuckle escaped her lips.

Home was a set of dimples that played peek-a-boo, only coming out once in a while, only when he really smiled. And it was tousled brown hair that skirted the top of his jaw line, just dipping beneath his earlobe. Home was the little crinkles that framed his glittering eyes. They moved in and out and over and under, glowing and fading and glowing and fading, whirlpools of light and dark. And light. Dark…

…light…

Her brow furrowed and she bit the tip of her thumb. A breathy moan escaped her lips and she felt the crease at the top of her nose, right between her eyes. Something wasn't right; the warmth that had been so pleasant, so protective was beginning to cool, and she felt confused as to why it was deserting her.

"Rogue?"

Across what seemed like miles she heard her name. She swung her head around, her eyes fighting to focus on the scene around her. Everything seemed so detached. Like it didn't belong to the environment from where she had just come. She felt the panic rise in her chest, the warmth now completely gone; her home melting around her.

She was…in the Blackbird?

"Rogue?"

She looked; her eyes took a moment to adjust. Storm and Kitty were standing before her, their mouths moved, but their voices didn't match up, like a bad audio connection. Rogue shook her head, trying desperately to clear the cobwebs. She rubbed her eyes, pulled at her ears, tried to figure out where she was and how she had gotten there…

"Rogue." This time the words and the mouth were connected, and the southerner let out a strangled sigh.

"Ah—Ah—How--?"

Kitty was frowning; she placed a hand on her friend's shoulder. "You're in the Blackbird."

Rogue's eyebrows cinched together and she shook her head, her ringlets quaking against the short bursts. "But—no—Ah—_how_--? How did Ah--?"

"Rogue," Storm chewed on her lip before continuing, "Rogue, do you know where Remy is?"

Rogue looked around the med lab. "He was here. Ah was just with…" she stopped. His eyes. Light, dark, light, dark. And she felt wetness begin to form beneath her eyelids. "He—he hypnotized me."

"Yeah," Storm nodded. "Charmed you. He has a low level form of telepathy. Very good at making suggestions with which you just can't seem to argue."

"He…mind-controlled…me?"

Storm shook her head. "No, it's not quite that powerful. It's more or less a significant power of suggestion. Don't feel bad. It's not like you're the first—"

"That bastard sent me back here after Ah told him Ah wasn't leavin' him?"

"Do you know where he is?"

"Ah know where he was…more or less. An' when Ah find him again, Ah'm gonna beat him black and blue."

"He may not be that hard to find," Xavier wheeled into the room. "I've just received communication from Scott. We think we know where JP is. And if I even pretend to know our wayward Cajun, I imagine he's looking for two things."

Kitty shook her head. "What's that, Professor?"

"His brother," Xavier began, "and retribution."

X

_It fuckin' sucks to get shot!_

Gambit was leaning against a large tree. Thorned bushes circled the perimeter, skirting over the tops of serpentine roots and skimming the bottoms of the twisted branches. While it did hide him from prying eyes, the hidey-hole was limited in its protection for obvious reasons: leaves did not make a viable force field; they weren't bulletproof. He leaned his head against the rough bark, and cocked his ear toward the direction of the amphitheater. His shoulder throbbed. The fingerlike thorns digging into his skin probably didn't help it. He closed his eyes and gripped his shoulder with his free hand. The stench of blood mingled with sweat; he wrinkled his nose, but breathed deeply anyhow. He was starting to shake; the mediocre first-aid treatment that the Friends had given him was beginning to wear off. If it meant an alcohol swab and a new bandage, he doubted very much that he would mind seeing Alaska again. But somehow he suspected that a new meeting wouldn't be as pleasant as the first.

The amphitheater area still had many Friends within its outskirts. If he'd been in tip-top condition, he'd have already been in and gotten JP out. Unfortunately, he wasn't in the best of condition. He wasn't really sure if what he was in could even technically be considered a condition.

All he knew was that he hurt.

Setting his teeth into his top lip, he focused on moving his shoulder…just a little. It throbbed in protest, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He had to ignore the pain; he had to overcome it. He had to save JP.

He thought about the poor mutants that had gone before him. He wondered what kinds of deaths they had met. He thought about what the Friends would have done to him, what they were sure to do to JP. He imagined what they would have done to Rogue if she and Sam had been discovered at the warehouse district…if he hadn't saved them. It made him sick, made him want to retch, but his mind continued through the scenarios despite his attempts to squash them. He gripped his shoulder tighter, gritting his teeth against the pain.

He heard scuffling from the direction of the amphitheater. Moving at a snail's pace, he leaned down to the ground, his cheek pressed into the dirt, and looked through a tiny leaf porthole that he had created for just such an occasion.

Several Friends were bringing their trophies back for appraisal. Some trophies were completely, eerily still; others still had some fight in them. A few Friends were bickering between themselves; he couldn't make out their words, but he didn't need empathy to realize that they weren't happy.

He lay against the ground, watching, fuming in silence.

What he needed was a distraction. One that was large enough to pull most of the Friends out and away from the amphitheater, from that stage where his powers were completely off. He had deduced something about the Friends. One was that their fear made them totally irrational. Another was that their irrationality made them creatures of habit. They would want to do what they knew worked. The stage worked. They had all seen it when JP hit the ground mid-flight. That was a safety zone. They could allow themselves to become as physically brutal as they wanted without the fear of mutant retaliation. Which was another thing he had noticed: the Friends wanted to feel superior. Killing with weapons wasn't nearly as exhilarating or as powerful as barehandedly beating the ever-living shit out of someone. Also, there was the matter of those trashcans. He knew they were saving JP for when they really needed that sense of grandeur. Probably the finale of this insanity. And that meant they needed a place to store him. The cans were perfect.

He lay there for a long moment. He had to come to grips with the real possibility that this was the end of the line for him. His mortality was staring him down. The funny thing about being a mutant superhero—hell, forget that, just being 26 years old, was that the invincibility-syndrome that started when he was a teen-ager was still there to a small degree. It was hard for him to truly accept that leaving the "safety" of the shrubbery with the injuries that he had sustained could be considered a form of suicide. Granted, he would be extremely heroic, but what the hell good did heroics do if he was in a body bag?

He opened his eyes and let out a small breath. That was when he saw it. His stacked deck. And he couldn't stop the crooked hitch of his lip that slid into a full-fledged grin.

Dimples and all.

X

Distraction is an art.

From the fake lashes and push-up bras filling the bars on Saturday nights to the fake passes and zigzags on the football field, distraction is at play any day in any given place. Some diversions are simple, unplanned, yet welcomed for their ability to capture the attention away from the more mundane or distasteful tasks that fill each day. Others are more elaborate, perfectly planned and executed with the full intent of keeping eyes off of the real target. Like the beautiful assistants in a magic show, some distractions are the key to the trick, to the science that lies beneath the smoke and mirrors.

At that moment, Gambit didn't have the luxury of a beautiful assistant designed to keep the Friends' gazes off of him. But he did have a diversion…unplanned and volatile as it appeared to be, he did have one. And he enjoyed the humor of its irony with a smile and a low, unhappy chuckle.

He pushed through the encircling bush and put the tree between him and his Diversion. Keeping low to the ground, he pressed his cheek into the dirt and, careful not to move the branches too much, lifted the leaves at the bottom of the bush so he could peer out and see the front entry to the amphitheater.

Shaking with insanity or anger and covered in mud and blood stood Graydon Creed.

The Friends' seemed to freeze in his presence, mystified by their leader's uncharacteristic lack of suavity and clarity. They stared at him, eyes wide with fear and grotesque admiration, as they waited for him to speak, to lead them to the promised future of the human race. And, he too, seemed frozen, his maddening eyes flickering between sanity and the not, gazing into their faces, trying to make sense of all that he was seeing. He stood, his back to the tree, facing the gathering that was filing in from the woods and raising his hands and his voice.

X

He didn't see him.

Until he tripped over his legs.

And then Kurt picked himself up and stared down at the inert body of Sam Guthrie. At first he'd had a sense of terror seize at him. He was positive Sam had been discovered by the Friends and murdered on the spot.

Then, it occurred to him that there wasn't any blood.

And Sam was breathing.

Quickly and carefully, he pulled Sam up and threw him over a shoulder and began teleporting toward the Blackbird.

X

"Rogue, I think it would be in the best interest of the mission if you stayed on the Blackbird and helped Storm, Kitty, and I with the necessary medical—"

"No offense, Professor," Rogue began as she stalked down the ramp, Cannonball's power already flickering against her legs, "but Ah have a previous engagement."

X

He found the truck.

It was parked at the rear of the amphitheater behind a couple trees. What was easy a 25-foot flat bed trailer was hooked to its bumper. Gambit leaned against the trailer, resting for just a moment. The crawl from his hidey-hole beside the tree had all but exhausted his usually endless bounty of energy. Breathing was starting to be too tiring. Gathering himself together, he pulled himself up onto the trailer.

Filling half of the bed's capacity was an army of silver, cylindrical sentinels. Gambit felt his chest tighten against the awkwardness of the metal mutant kennels.

Somewhere, in one of those little prisons, had to be JP. They had to be holding him, saving him for some other psychotic rite of passage ritual to re-establish their faith in themselves as God's supreme creation. He stared at the canisters. Wished that he didn't believe they were full. Wished that there was a better way to go about his self-inflicted job. But he had to find JP, and, unfortunately, he couldn't run the risk of attracting too much attention. Not yet anyway. Not without ample back up.

So he was faced with yet another moral conundrum. Rescue his friend and let all the others suffer or rescue everyone and run the risk of being re-captured and re-tortured and possibly not save anyone. He squeezed his eyes shut and hoped that he could live with his decision.

A curl of silver flittered away from him. Like a butterfly alighting on a flower, his empathy flitted and fluttered across the metal garden, gingerly touching down on each canister, sipping from the emotions of those inside until he found a pattern he recognized.

Empathy was not as complete as telepathy. He couldn't read minds; he couldn't detect malignancies hidden within a person's soul. No, he had to read emotions. Emotions, he imagined tasted differently than thoughts. Thoughts were more matter of fact, colder. Emotions, on the other hand, could run the gamut from bitter to sweet to sour to hot to cold to tepid. And to make matters worse, it wasn't unheard of to experience several emotions all at once. But emotions were patterned in a way that was similar to a personality. And lucky for him, he happened to know a great deal about JP's personality.

The cylinder that gave him pause was spiking all over the emotional roller coaster. He felt relief, anger, denial, fear, hatred, love, hate, inappropriateness…

X

"We have been infiltrated."

The rush of whispers swerved through the crowd, but Creed silenced it with one look.

The sneer twisted his face and accentuated the eyes of a madman. The crowd gave a collective gulp. Creed continued, his hands rose before him like he was a prophet to the Master Plan.

"Friends, we have been infiltrated. Our pureness has been tainted by the hands of the enemy. They walk among us. They pretend to be us. Look at your neighbor and try to determine the amount of sincerity in his heart. Where are the pledges?" He scanned the increasing crowd with narrowed eyes and cut his shaking finger in the air before him. "Bring all of the pledges to the stage. We must rid our citadel of its trespassers!"

The Friends were frozen to their spots, each looking at one another and back to Creed.

Finally, someone spoke.

"Sir, but, excuse me, sir? How—How will we tell them from the humans?"

Creed tapped his fingertips together and then folded his hands before him. "Sometimes sacrifices must be made."

X

The lid was heavier than it looked. Or, maybe, he was weaker than he wanted to admit. Either way, it was a bitch to lift.

Inspecting the can a little closer, (he half-expected to find a foot pedal to lift the cover) he noticed a small hole that slid back across the lid like a miniature train tunnel. Okay, so he wasn't as weak as he feared. He needed a tool. Searching the truck's bed, he spied a tool chest near the cab. Then, with tool in hand, he slid the hook neatly into the tunnel. Using his body for leverage, he pulled the lid up from the cylinder. He pushed it over and carefully set it on the bed, not wanting to drop it for fear of attention. Peering inside the cylinder, he felt his breath catch.

JP's eyes slid open and squinted up at him from the tube. He was bloody and bruised. His right cheek had a deep gash running across it and his eye was swollen so that Remy could barely make out the thin river of blue from between two purple mountains. Dried blood crusted in streams from both nostrils and by the way he was holding his arms, Remy was pretty sure they were both broken.

Anger bubbled inside of him. He swallowed it. It threatened to boil him alive. Instead, he forced an easy smile to slide across his face, forced the words to stream from his mouth in a slow, southern canter, "What say, me an' you, we get outta dis hellhole?"

"_Merci, Dieu_, Remy. I thought I was going to die in here."

Remy leaned in and carefully hooked his arms around JP's chest. "Not today. Not if I can help it."

X

"Is something wrong?"

The Friend blew out a breath. "Ma'am, I don't really know. All I know is that I was told to gather up as many pledges as I could find. I don't remember this happening at the last retreat."

"Is this some kind of impromptu awards assembly for catching muties?" Bobby began, "Now, we don't have one yet, but I know I got a good shot at one. Just a matter of finding where he went to die. I think it was that one with all of his powers. They haven't caught him yet have they?"

Emma glared at him.

The Friend raised an eyebrow, but continued to lead them toward the amphitheater. "Not that I know of." He led them to the entrance. "Head on to the stage." He pointed down the stairs.

Emma's heart stopped in her chest. "Oh, dear, God."

Bobby gripped her hand in his. "This doesn't look good."

Lines of people were being ushered onto the stage by gun-wielding Friends. There were easily a hundred people, standing upon the stage in nervous little rows.

Bobby scanned the stage with his eyes; Emma used her powers.

"Piotr's there," he whispered.

Emma nodded. "Betsy, as well."

"Great. They got both of our telepaths. You better call it in. Once we get on that stage, we are so screwed."

X

Cyclops slammed his fist into a tree. "Damn it!"

"That's it! I'm tired of pussyfooting around! I say we go in there now. What the hell are we waiting for?" Wolverine's claws opened and closed with each word.

Polaris was shaking her head. "Maybe it's some kind of ceremonial rite of passage?"

"I thought the hunt was the rite of passage," Hank murmured. "This could be one of two things. One, it could be a graduation-type ritual."

Wolverine narrowed his eyes. "And the other?"

"Ever hear of the Valentine's Day Massacre?"

"Well, that just rips it." The Canadian was on his feet and jabbing a finger into Cyclops' chest in a matter of seconds. "Okay, fearless leader. What about now, huh? You still feel like X-Men have to stay squeaky-clean or are you ready to get a little dirt on those manicured hands?"

X

"Well, this sucks." He peeked out from behind one of the trailer's wheels; JP was beside him, his back propped against the tire. Remy was studying the stage, which had suddenly begun to fill with Friends, many of whom had tiny arsenals looped about their waists. "What de hell is goin' on over dere?"

"Knowing the Friends, I doubt it is anything good." He shifted and a slight moan escaped his lips; Remy glanced over at him. "_Desole_. I think I have a broken rib."

Sliding that now not-so-easy grin on his face, he patted his friend gently on the shoulder, "We're gon' get outta here, JP. I just don' know how at de moment."

"You are not exactly a ray of sunshine, _frere_."

Remy nodded, his eyes keeping track of the people moving on and around the stage. "That's because it's raining shit." He nodded toward the stage, "I just noticed a particularly beautiful Asian woman being forced up on that stage."

JP raised an eyebrow. "Picking out your Saturday date?"

"Did I mention she had purple hair?" The frown tugged the corners of his mouth so far down, he was sure he'd strike oil.

"Betsy?"

"If not, she's a dead-ringer."

"Who the hell are you?!" The question was more of a command since it was violently punctuated by the barrel of a gun being thrust into his face.

Remy looked up and locked eyes with Alaska.

"_Merde_."

The larger man reached down and grabbed Remy by his collar. With what Remy considered very little effort, he felt himself being pulled out from under the trailer and hauled up until he came eye to eye with the monstrous Friend, his feet swinging freely beneath him.

Alaska's grip tightened around the collar and Remy felt nauseous as a slow, sickening chuckle bubbled up from the man's chest. His face screwed itself into a frightening compromise of murder and humor and Remy saw his life slowly ticking away.

Despite that fact, he couldn't resist the urge to shoot off his mouth. "What? You wan' kiss me?"

Alaska's lips parted and he bared his teeth. "I'm gonna enjoy cutting your fuckin' head off." He shoved his gun behind his back and reached for the blade on his hip. "See, I'm not as fancy as Creed. I don't go in for all of this drama. I just want to kill me some mutie bastards. And lookey here. I found me one."

Remy's eyes widened as Alaska's hand curled around the knife's handle. He felt himself squirm; his hand flew to Alaska's wrist. He grabbed it and pushed against the giant's chest with the other hand. "You put dat knife down or I'll blow you t' hell."

Alaska sneered. "You can't use your power back here."

_WHUMP!_

He hit the ground sideways. His head rattled. He felt hands on his ankles, trying to pull him back under the truck. He turned toward the hands; it was JP. He had a horrified look on his face and he was trying, with two broken arms, to drag Remy back to the pseudo-protection of the trailer.

Remy shook his head, rubbed his temples, and squinted at the body lying nearby. Alaska wasn't moving. He was knocked out; he'd hit the ground so hard.

He moved quickly, rolling back under the trailer, and squeezing against JP for the protection offered by the tires. Beyond the trailer he could hear the crunch of gravel. Remy scooped up a handful and felt a tiny burst of relief when the familiar magenta glow of his power moved from his hand to the make-shift weapon.

"Ya gonna blow me up too?" Her honeyed voice nearly broke him.

He spun around the tire, falling to his stomach in the dirt. "Rogue?!" He scrambled toward her and she helped him to his feet. "What are you doin' here, girl? I thought—"

She narrowed her eyes and poked him squarely in the chest. "What? That you 'charmed' me? Ah told you that Ah'm stayin' wit' you. B'sides, by the looks of things, Ah s'pose you needed me more'n you thought." She cast a pointed glance at Alaska's inert body. "So, whatcha gonna do with all that?" She nodded toward his hand, the pebbles still glowed their ominous color. "You let those go and everyone will know we're back here. We're already in the fryin' pan."

Remy looked down at his hand. "Yeah," focusing he pulled the power back into himself. He grimaced.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine." He stooped down and carefully helped JP out from under the trailer. JP was pale, and his breathing was labored. "You gotta get him back t' de Blackbird. He needs a doctor."

Rogue shook her head. "An' what? Leave you here?! Ah told you Ah can't do that."

He lowered his friend to sit in front of tire; JP slumped against it. "We gotta get him outta here. He's got two broken arms. You can get him back to the 'Bird faster than me. I wan' you t' come back. Hell, I'll admit, I _need_ you to come back. The Friends got a hundred people up on that stage and I know at least one of them is an X-Man."

"What 'bout him?" Rogue eyes jabbed at the unconscious Friend. "You reckon you can take him if he wakes up before I get back?" She set her eyes on his shoulder. "'Cause, between you and me, Ah doubt it."

JP's voice was small; his face was pale and his skin shone with perspiration. "What…about the…cans?"

"Pardon?" Remy leaned down to put his ear near JP's mouth. "What, _frere_?"

Clearing his throat, he was able to amplify his voice by a fraction. "Put your giant…in one of…the cans. Then…you won't…have to worry…about fighting…"

Rogue shook her head. "Ah don't got much of Sam's juice left. How on earth are we gonna lift that sonuvabitch?"

A wave of acridity made them all smoosh their palms against their noses.

A smile framed in blue fur and pointed teeth shined down on them from atop a cylinder. "Hello, _mein freunds_. The professor directed me to you. Maybe I can help?"

X

She felt the hand tighten around her arm as she was yanked through the crowd, and then shoved toward the lip of the stage. On one side of her, her chin jutting forward in defiance, stood a young woman with dark purple hair and the posture of a supermodel, on the other side, was a gray mustached man easily in his late fifties. She could feel herself shaking, as she looked behind her and saw a mess of people. They wore confused looks on their faces, and they melded together, each copying the look of the next one, the whole mass was a crowd of confusion and…fear.

On the ground standing before the stage was the Friends' leader, Graydon Creed.

He was so tall even from far away that she could see the command his character demanded. Now, as he stood before her, his eyes churning with mistrust and, what could only be described as…madness…she still felt mesmerized by the sheer power of his presence. He was the judge, jury, and executioner. He was their protector, leading them into a world where they could sleep at night and not have to check their locks for the fourth time. He was going to keep the mutant animals from carrying away their families like the rabid dogs that they were. She believed this, and yet…

There was something in Creed's stance, in the way his shoulders hunched, the way he regarded them from under dark, hooded eyes, knitted brows. Something was ominously different. She felt herself gulp.

"I think something's wrong," she whispered to the violet beauty beside her.

The other woman raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow. "_Now_ you think something's wrong?"

She wasn't sure what the sarcasm was about, but decided to ignore it as Creed was beginning to speak.

"Friends," his voice boomed, the crowd instantly stilled and turned their eyes toward humanity's savior. "I coined this word as our name, because that is what I believe us to be. We are the 'Friends of Humanity.' We believe in the human way. We believe that human children, our children, are the true successors of our ancestors. We are the children of Adam and Eve. We are the ones created in the image of the Lord. Not the mutant swine." He chuckled, "I thought this day was sanctified; that it was our means by which we could celebrate our righteousness and cleanse our world of the mutant filth and disease that is threatening to overcome it. I thought you, the brothers and sisters of a new wave, would want to celebrate the beginning of the human world with me. But you lied to me."

A murmur erupted from the back of the stage and heads swiveled around trying to comprehend what blasphemy Creed was addressing.

"Silence!"

And they all did just as they were told.

He licked his lips, laced his fingers behind his back, and began pacing.

"This puts me at an impasse. You see, I don't believe that you are all liars. And while I do intend to find out who is, I can't allow the poisoning of my people anymore." He pulled a gun from the waistband of his pants. "I'm just going to have to sort it out later."

He leveled it and fired.

The crowd—on the stage, off the stage, everywhere—screamed in unison.

X

"No!" Betsy threw herself in front of the woman standing next to her. She gripped the woman's shoulders and looked her over wildly. "You—you're not—hit?"

The woman lowered her hands from her face and felt her chest with disbelieving hands. She was shaking her head, "N-n-n-no. But how?" She looked up and focusing her eyes on Betsy, her mouth dropped open. "L-l-l-look!" She gasped and pointed behind Betsy's head.

Betsy turned and she felt her breath catch. Hanging frozen in mid-air inches from Betsy's head, was the bullet.

The crowd was unmoving. The collective silence was unnerving.

"Interesting." Creed climbed the stage and moved toward them. He pushed Betsy aside and leered at the woman. "Interesting how you didn't get shot. Are you a mutant?"

The woman shook with fear. "N-n-n-no! I-I-I I'm not!"

"She's not," the crowd wildly looked around, "but I am!" The owner of the voice floated from the sky. Joseph snapped his fingers and the bullet clinked against the wood floor.

Creed chuckled, then, "Shoot him."

The Friends on the ground focused their weapons on the mutant hovering above and opened fire.

Betsy lunged for Creed, one arm wrapping around his torso, the other behind his neck. Her fingers rested in front of his ear, her palm against the back of his fat head. She dug her fingers into his temple. "Bloody good day for you to die, don't you think so?" She hissed into the back of his neck. "I can break your neck in one movement. Make them stop shooting."

His chuckle started slow and low and spread until it was almost a high-pitched squeal. "Stupid mutant!" He spat.

Someone slammed the heel of a boot into the back of Betsy's skull. She let out a gasp and then crumpled to the floor.

The bullets flew at Joseph. The magnetic field encircling him managed to repel most of the bullets, but the growing number was beginning to wear on his focus.

Suddenly, one whizzed toward him before freezing millimeters from his ear.

"Hey, bro! Thought I'd even things out a bit!" Polaris gave him a forced smile as she joined him in the air.

From the stage, Creed bellowed, "More mutants!" He jabbed his finger into the air and circled around him. "Friends, destroy them!"

The people on the stage began to panic. They started to leap from the stage, to bury themselves within the crowd. Within their ranks stood full-fledged Friends, each wielding an assortment of weapons.

The Friends on the ground pointed their weapons to the sky and continued firing on the air-borne mutants. A beam of red split them down the middle and they all stopped for a moment, and looked wildly around.

"That's enough!" Cyclops' voice held every bit the authority of Creed's and the Friends found themselves listening for a moment.

But only a moment.

"More of them!" shouted Creed and he kicked a fallen person on the stage. "Rid the world of them! Eradicate them! All of them! They're in disguise!"

Wolverine sprinted into the throng, slicing his claws through gun after gun. Another shot sounded and he fell to the ground. The Friends cheered. The bullets began again, followed by another round of optic beams.

Bobby and Emma were helping Betsy to her feet when an armed guard lowered his gun on them.

"Fuckin' mutants," he hissed.

"_Da_." Piotr grabbed him from behind. Bobby broke his wrist prying the gun away.

Hank was grabbing people from the stage, whether they wanted to be helped down or not. "Excuse me," he said to a sour-faced old woman, "but you can either let me help you down or get shot by one of your own." And he pulled her off the stage.

More gunfire. More screaming. More running.

And then…

KABOOM!

Explosives pelted the stage like some sort of twisted hail. The people became more erratic, thrashing against one another as they tried to abandon their sinking ship.

Creed hissed, pushed through the flood of people to get to the back of the stage. He reached it just in time to see his truck's taillights barreling through the brush. Rage flooded into him when he saw the mutant and his traitor girlfriend standing on the ground before him.

"You!" He yelled.

Remy's sideways grin was cocky. "_Oui_. Me."

Creed gripped his gun, a snarl curling his lip. And he fired.

Rogue screamed and fell to the ground, holding her hip.

Remy grabbed for her, his hands catching the warm blood. He turned, and lunged at Creed's feet, knocking him to the floor. He climbed onto the stage and dragged Creed up with whatever strength he had left.

Creed smashed his fist into Remy's jaw and dug fingernails into the open wound of his shoulder.

Remy howled and grabbed a fistful of shirt. He focused all his attention on his power and waited for the familiar warmth.

It didn't come.

He was bewildered. He tried again.

Creed's smile made him ill.

"What's wrong, mutant? No power?"

And Remy remembered. The stage.

Creed hit him again, and again. His fist pummeling into Remy's already worn and abused body. With each attack, he shoved him toward the front of the stage.

The crowd in the front was thinner, but still active.

And then they saw Creed and Remy.

The Friends stilled. The X-Men halted. Logan regained consciousness.

"What the fu—?"

Remy dropped to the ground, hooked his toe behind Creed's ankle and pulled. Creed staggered away, nearly losing his footing. He dragged Remy up by the back of his hair.

"Do you actually think you're getting out of this alive?" He glanced over his shoulder and laughed as he saw Rogue pull herself onto the stage, blood spilling down her leg. He looked back at Remy. "So, you're in heat, are you? Well, let me tell you what I'm going to do, dog. I'm going to shoot you and then, I'm going to shoot her. And you can watch as you both bleed to death."

He pulled Remy back, shoved him into Rogue, and buried the barrel of the gun deep into his gut. "Let's see if your mutie friends are fast enough to stop this bullet."

An optic blast shot into the lip of the stage. Another slammed into the back of the stage. Creed gripped Remy tighter and laughed at the missed onslaught.

"You stupid fools." He dug the gun into Remy's gut once more; his eyes turned with madness. "Now, it's your turn."

Another blast exploded against the front of the stage. And another. The blasts chipped away at the wood, sending splinters careening through the air. Creed's eyes glazed over. His face contorted with fear and anger. "NO! Stop!" He swirled the gun away from Remy, and shot haphazardly toward the stage's front.

Suddenly, the air seemed to turn electric. Remy's nerves sparked and his eyes began to glow with an ominous fire. Creed's brows furrowed and then pinched together in hatred. "No, you're going to die!" He slammed the gun back into Remy's stomach, his hands pulling the mutant into his face. "First you and then the girl."

Remy grabbed Creed's shirt, his power pouring into it, awakening balanced atoms and tipping their existence into instability. Magenta flowed over Creed's body. From his shirt to his pants to his shoes, he glowed with the promise of explosion.

Creed's smile turned feral. His eyes glowed in the magenta light. "Kill me and I become immortal."

Remy smiled back. "Okay." And he let go.

The explosion puctuated the maddening swirl of laughter quite nicely.

* * *

Well, there you go. I made a few changes because, well, it ocurred to me that it needed to be done. Remy's been reunited with the X-Men. But at what cost? Scott is a firm believer in the mantra "X-Men don't kill," so how is his conscience going to handle that he aided and abetted a murder? Will the X-Men ever recover from this mission or will its ghost continue to give them nightmares? Have the Friends learned their lesson? Are Remy and Rogue together for real? How on earth did they fit Alaska into one of those containers? Is JP going to be okay? Will Sam forgive Rogue for sucking out his power and leaving him in the forest with a bunch of vigilante wack-os? Stay tuned. It ain't over yet, but the end is definitely in sight.

Thank you to all of you who reviewed or sent me an email. I have read them all and I hope this chapter was worth your wait. Again, I look forward to your comments and constructive criticisms. I hope that you continue to enjoy this story. It's been my pleasure to write it. Oh! If you notice any words with extra t's in them, I apologize; that key seems to have started sticking, and it is driving me crazy. I've tried to catch all of them, but I wouldn't be shocked to find out that I've missed one.

Thank you!

Anamarie


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

_No one ever said it would be this hard._

The Scientist, Coldplay

The world tilted sideways, then fell on its ass.

Scott picked himself up. Gasping, he wiped blood splatter from his visor. His head whirled about, searching the area for signs of life. A bullet pinged off his Kevlar. Did nothing phase these bastards?

He saw the onslaught for what it was—a terrified horde who had just lost their demigod. That being said, they were still wielding automatic weapons, not to mention shooting them at him.

His fingertips gripped the dial at his temple and he let his optic beam fire in short, hot bursts, disarming his attackers and leaving them a little worse for wear, but not dead. He grimaced, spat the taste of blood from his mouth. There had been too many deaths today. And if he wanted to prevent anymore, he had to get his team back to the Bird.

Cuffing them, he scanned the stage; it was empty save for what was left of Creed.

Remy and Rogue were no where to be seen. For a sickening second, he was almost sure Remy had disintegrated the two of them.

He slapped the communicator on his chest. "Wolverine?"

Static, and then, "Thought you'd be vapor."

He grinned; it was hard, unamused. "Sorry to disappoint. Status?"

"Damn Cajun blew me into a tree. I'm coming up on you now."

Scott turned and saw the Wolverine emerge into the clearing. He walked with the air of a beast of prey, his senses ever-alert, never taking the world at face value, eyes always on the shadows. His walk was stealthy, yet the fear that gripped Creed's merry band of miscreants was not present. And why should it be? The man could take whatever was dished his way and come out all but unscathed.

He measured Scott within his shadowed gaze, flicked a piece of—Scott didn't want to know—from his shoulder. "Why didn't you fly?"

Scott shook his head. "I know Remy. I knew what had to be done."

He looked around, his eyes searching a world bathed in red. Not that he could tell, everything was red within the confines of his visor. "Status?"

Wolverine blew out air. "Don't know. Ain't seen any of the team. Still some snipers hiding throughout the forest, but I think most of the Friends bolted along with Creed's spleen." He sniffed the air. "Don't smell Gambit. Or Rogue for that matter."

Scott saw his jaw flex; Logan viewed Rogue as a personal responsibility. Probably similar to the way he viewed Remy. He started to speak, to offer some half-assed sympathetic jargon, but decided against it; it was bullshit after all and he hadn't time for it. Besides, his communicator beeped.

"What the hell was that!" Kitty's voice swam to their ears through an ocean of static.

Scott slipped back into his training, becoming the commander once more, not the friend. "Never mind that," he barked, "I need statuses and locations on all X-Men in the field. Wolverine's sniffed out a few of Creed's stragglers; we need them contained and cuffed before we can pull out of here. I also need eyes above. Locate any surviving mutants. And, Kitty," he hesitated, the last part of his orders tasting sour on his tongue, "We may be collecting bodies...of some of our own."

X

She opened her eyes and felt them roll back into her head against the light. The explosion's power had caught her off-guard and she'd been pushed back into the woods. She'd managed to miss a tree and had landed in a thorny bramble. Her skin burned with fresh cuts and scratches. At her feet, also within the plant's thorny grips, he laid.

She freed her hair, hissed as another thorn sliced through her palm, and slithered out from her prison. He was so still, she felt a lump form within her throat and swallowed at it as she stretched a shaking hand to his neck. He had a pulse, it flittered against her touch and she felt her relief collapse against her chest.

He stirred, his skin pale, blue-tinged, and she wondered at his breathing. He opened his eyes, squinting against a stream of sunshine that spilled through the forest's canopy. He sat up, rubbing his head, smearing blood down his shirt.

"Some ride," he half-chuckled, half-groaned.

A sob escaped her lips and she hugged his neck. He raised a hand to her shoulder, rubbing circles and whispering worthless words of comfort. He knew she didn't believe any of them, yet she allowed him to say them, needed him to voice some sort of sanity.

Finally, he asked her the question she was too afraid to ask herself. "Have we heard anything?"

What he was really asking was "Do we know if anyone else is still alive?"

She shook her head, her hair taking flight with the sheer force of her fear. "Nothing."

He licked his lips, wiped a tear from her cheek. "Emma, you gotta check. We gotta call in. We gotta help who needs it."

She nodded, closed her eyes and sent out a telepathic cry: _Emma and Bobby reporting...please tell me we're not the only ones!_

X

His skin was warm against hers.

She pressed a kiss against his clavicle before nestling into the crook of his arm, her head on his shoulder. She ran a gloveless hand down the hardness of his stomach, fingers playing lazily with the trail of hair there. He kissed her curls, his free hand stilling her tantalizing path.

Her eyes, heavy with sleep, began to close of their own accord, but not before her lips whispered against his skin, sending goosebumps skittering across his body. "Remy."

X

"Shit!" Lorna hissed through her teeth, her hands trembling above her brother's leg. "Oh, Joe!"

Broken bone pierced through Joe's pants. Lorna ripped the material away and bit her lip; she wasn't sure how her brother was still conscious. Tearing the excess into strips, she knotted the denim as tightly as she could high up on her brother's thigh.

He jerked away from her, a curse thundering on a whisper. He stilled himself, looked at her with hard, blue eyes and caught her hands. "Stop, stop. I'll be fine." His teeth were clenched and she knew that the pain was more than fine. He continued, glancing over her like one did a child who had fallen on the playground, "Are you okay? Any bullets-" His eyes rolled back and he grimaced, his hands releasing her own and gripping just above the break. He sucked in air, blew it out, and repeated until he felt he could open his eyes once more. "Any bullets hit you?" His voice was different—controlled pain and she shook her head quickly.

"No, Joe, I'm fine." She turned from him, covering the trail of blood flowing down her arm. It was nothing, a flesh wound, but she knew he would take the bullet graze as a personal affront on his duties as big brother.

She scanned the area with frightened, green eyes and gathered her powers. Her magnetic sphere surrounded her and she raised into the air, hoping to find survivors from their little band of interlopers and praying not to find the opposite. She reached the tops of the trees, her eyes still alert. She cursed at the sun and the sky each of which had stood silent sentry over the atrocities of the day. Both seemed aloof, untouched by the violence and she wondered at how the sky could be so blue and the sun so bright.

She lowered, stealing a glance at her brother's pale face. She hated to move him by herself, feared that such a jarring could create more of a problem than not, but she hated to wait for help, and the off-chance that a Friend was lurking within the shadows waiting to kill them both, seemed more a great possibility. So she knelt beside her brother, pressed the X on her chest, and announced her intent.

"This is Lorna and Joe. We're coming in. We need medical attention immediately." She bent her power around them and lifted them into the sky.

X

Betsy blinked her eyes. "Piotr?"

He stooped down to her place on the ground. "Betsy? Are you well?"

She rubbed a manicured hand through her rumpled hair and winced when her fingers touched a lump. "Yes, thanks to you."

Piotr nodded. "I had to get you away from the fighting. You could do no more fighting with a concussion." He paused, then added, "I did not know that it would end as it did."

"Yes," she licked her lips, violet eyes searching their wooded refuge. "Yes, well, lucky thing for me. I don't know that I would have survived that." She tipped her chin at a fallen tree. Its middle was snapped in half. "I believe your power came in very handy."

His fingertips skidded across the ragged break. "It is a shame that such a thing of beauty was a victim of such violent hatred."

She swallowed; her head felt light. Piotr was right, perhaps she did have a concussion. She leaned back against a tree trunk and breathed. She watched him as he watched the area, steel-gray eyes to match his invulnerable form. His power was on, holding him within the cocoon of its metallic shield. He had used that power to block the explosion from her, had dropped to his knees, covering her body with his own. That was how the tree had broken, snapped in half on impact with his colossal form.

Suddenly, she sat up, her head turning every which way. Frantic, she called out to him, "Emma and Bobby? Where are they?"

He knelt beside her. Sadness and the fear of not-knowing broke through the gray steel of his eyes. "I do not know. We were separated during the first blast. I did not see what became of them after that." He hung his head and swallowed. "I did not see what became of anyone."

"Have you called in?" She wanted to know.

He shook his head. "I have no communicator. I must rely on telepathic connection." He gingerly touched her head. "How is your head?"

_Like a bad hangover_, she thought, but squeezed her eyes closed and concentrated. She'd send out a telepathic cry like a five-alarm fire. She directed it toward mutant brain waves and prayed that there were still teammates that could receive it.

_Psylocke and Colossus...we're alive! Anyone else out there?_

X

Hank tapped the X on his uniform. He'd managed to get several of the humans out of the stage's vicinity before the explosion. Now that the world had tipped right way up once more, he found himself standing in a circle of Friends, each angrier than the first that this mutant had dared to invoke his will upon them, whether it had saved their lives or not.

"Flea-ridden piece of shit."

He sighed, saddened that appearances and fear still ruled their hearts. But, he wasn't surprised. He had surmised during the evacuation that there was only a very slim chance that this circumstance would have any effect on their overall judgment toward mutants.

0.0005% to be more precise.

Glad to see that though his common sense was failing, his calculations remained accurate.

He looked over the group, his eyes searching for wounds; he was, after all, a doctor of sorts, not that geneticists logged many surgical hours. Yet still he felt that it was his duty as a human being...even if they were in direct opposition to that statement. "Anyone hurt?"

The Friends tensed at his words, a collective breath inhaling at once.

"None of your business!" Came the spat out reply.

Hank shook his head. "Well, technically speaking in a way it is my business. I am a doctor. So, if any of you are hurt, it is my duty, no matter how large a pain in my posterior you are, to offer you aid and assistance. So, I reiterate, 'anyone hurt'?"

Suddenly a woman of nearly 50 cried out. "My arm! I think I broke my arm!"

A nearby man slapped her, sending her into the dirt. "I'd rather you died than let a mutant touch you!"

A younger man jumped up, restraining him. A young woman helped the woman to her feet. She was in fact cradling her right arm, clasping it closely to her body. The young woman turned an expectant gaze at Hank, fear in her eyes, but lack of choices at her fingertips.

"Can you help her?"

He nodded, moved slowly toward them, his voice low and soothing. "I can. It will only be a rudimentary fix. You will have to take her to the hospital to have it set and x-rayed. But I can help it." He looked at the younger woman's frayed dress. "I will need some material; the hem of your dress should do nicely." Then, turning to the crowd, he spoke in an urgent voice. "I need a stick, thick and strong. It will help to stabilize her arm."

A few disappeared into the forest. They returned with a stick just as the young woman handed over the piece of her dress. Hank took them and carefully set the woman's quivering arm upon the stick.

"This will hurt, but I will attempt to keep it as pain-free as possible." He wrapped the material tightly around her arm and the stick. Finishing, he tied the strip in a knot and instructed, "Keep it tight to your body. Get to a hospital now."

He could feel eyes upon him, each glare red-hot on his back. If his calculations were correct, the men who had looked for the stick had probably had an ulterior search at the back of their minds. And, his calculations were almost always correct.

He turned and saw a pistol leveled at him.

The woman behind him called out to the owner of the pistol. "Stop! He helped us!"

The man chuckled. "And for that, we are grateful. Aren't we, boys? But, see, t'was his kind what started the whole reason for your broken arm. 'Sides, I didn't bag me a mutie yet. And I gotta nice space above my fireplace for that ugly mug of yours."

"I do not think, my friend, that you will be putting anyone's head above your fireplace."

The man looked up and gasped. A straight wind rushed from the sky, collecting him in its grip and sending him mercilessly into a tree. The gun dropped to the ground and was plucked up by some invisible hand and sent hurtling through the air. Next came a whirlwind. The Friends scattered before it, racing into the woods, voices ringing in fear.

"Salutations, Storm."

She alighted beside him, eyes full of concern. "Strange bedfellows." She gripped his arm, then quickly hugged him. His arms folded around her.

"It's okay. I'm okay."

She pulled away from him, shaking her head. "We must go. Before I lose control of my emotions, we must go back to the Blackbird."

X

That was the funny thing about disaster, Kitty decided, as she hauled ass out of the Blackbird and met the flatbed truck as it cleared the trees. It kicked people into survival mode, burning up their emotions and steeling them for the battle of life all at once. She hated the empty feeling in her stomach, hated the way it ate away her insides and left nothing but a husk intent on following orders and doing what needed to be done. She wished she could cry, to choke up the fear and anger and torment and just let it flow freely through every pore of her body.

But that would be a waste of time.

And time was the one thing they were losing.

Kurt slammed the truck to a stop, pulling the brake and grabbing JP in one movement. He teleported to the grass beside Kitty.

Opening the door would've been a waste of time.

She sucked down a gulp of air and quickly ticked over JP's injuries. "Okay, on the gurney." She helped Kurt transfer JP's pale form onto the stretcher and they ran back up the platform into the Bird.

She screamed down the corridor as they ran toward the MedLab. "IV and blood now!"

They tore into the room and carefully put him on a bed. The Professor inserted the IV, started the drip and then began the blood transfusion. He ran hands down his face, looking even older than he was.

"Two broken arms and beat to hell," Kurt muttered before grabbing Kitty by the arm and directing her back into the corridor. "We have to check the cylinders. They may have more mutants."

Kitty followed him, wide-eyed and sick to her stomach. "They were keeping them in trashcans?"

Kurt glanced back at her, his teeth baring in a way that made her skin crawl. "After all we've learned, that surprises you?"

She stopped, ran to the kitchen where Justin was sitting, eating another orange. "We need your help. Are you up to it?"

He nodded, tossing the peel on the table. "What do you need?"

"We may have more mutants to rescue. Do you know anything about metal cylinders?"

He froze, shuddered. "That was where they kept us. Like garbage. Did you find them?"

Kitty nodded, grabbed his hand, and pulled him down the corridor. "Yes, and we've gotta get them out of there now! The sooner we do, the sooner we find all of our people, the sooner we can get the hell outta here!"

X

Emma squinted against the sunlight as she and Bobby emerged into the amphitheater. She touched her temple and sent a golden curl of telepathy toward the stage. Scott and Logan were standing on the stage, their backs toward them. She gripped Bobby's wrist and they trudged down the incline to where their fellow teammates stood gazing at a blood-black smudge on the wood.

Bobby lifted himself on the stage, careful to miss the splintered, charred wood from Scott's attack. Then, he stooped, and offered his hand to Emma.

"So that's all that remains of the big, bad bastard, huh?"

Logan nodded, then kicked at an undecipherable chunk.

"Good riddance."

Scott was more reticent, his head parallel to the horizon he was scanning. "No visual on Remy or Rogue yet. Didn't want to leave the stage in case someone showed up."

Logan made a face and scuffed the bottom of his boot against the stage. A red line followed his foot. "Just cleaned these damn things," he muttered to himself and then, "Feels like I'm babysitting a hunk of wood."

Scott shook his head. "You are free to leave the stage."

"Wasn't talking about the stage."

Scott's visor flashed. "Listen, asshole, you've had a problem with me since we met. What say we curb it for a little longer and find our friends. Then, when we get back to the mansion, I'll keep beating the shit out of you while you keep on healing. Deal?"

Logan's smile was so feral, it gave Emma the creeps. "Right on."

"Have you had contact with anyone else? Any psi-messages?"

Emma nodded, her eyes darting between Scott and Logan. "Yes," she said, clearing her throat. "Right after making contact with you, I picked up on Betsy. She and Piotr are safe; they should be heading this way."

"Good. Then the Bird can come right to us. We need to find Remy and Rogue."

"If he blew her to kingdom come, Four Eyes, he's going to have to deal with me."

"Take a number."

Logan growled beside him.

Ignoring him, Scott dropped to the ground, his hand smudging a thin line of blood. He looked at his palm.

"Rogue." Logan answered the unspoken question.

Emma cleared her throat. "I've got something." Squeezing her eyes closed, her fingertips flew to her temple. "It's not much, but..." she trailed off. "That way."

X

She lay across his chest, her eyebrows arched suspiciously as his fingertips fluttered down her bareback. He just grinned at her, his dimples deepening the smile and preventing her from keeping the look of skepticism fixed on her face.

Despite herself, his smile was contagious and she felt the familiar tug of her lips pulling into an amused grin. "Oh, you think you're so cute." She clicked, her tongue finding a secure location under her teeth to keep her from laughing right out loud.

He shrugged, pulled her completely onto his chest and kissed her. "'S long as _you_ t'ink I'm cute..."

She scrunched up her nose, raising her chin in mock defiance. "Maybe I don't."

At that he laughed, his smooth lopsided smile hitching up a bit further on that one side, making it even more crooked than before. It was easy and smooth. And despite herself, she leaned down and kissed it.

His fingers twisted in her auburn curls, before grazing the backs of his fingers against her cheeks.

She stopped and leaned her forehead against his. Her eyes searching his. He let out an amused breath and ran the pads of his thumbs and forefingers on her earlobes. "Y'know," he began, his voice honey-lilted and heavy with sensuality, "when you look at me like this," he paused, his lips twisting into that half-hitched grin, "you kinda look like a bug."

She let out an exasperated breath and smacked him lightly on the chest. He laughed pulled her back down, capturing her lips with his own. Then, after several beats, he pulled away, leaned his forehead against her own, and grinned, "A cute bug, anyways."

X

The Blackbird reminded her of a scene in an old war movie. Make-shift emergency rooms had spilled beyond the medical bay. If they were not mutants, the nearest hospital was minutes away. But it was too risky to attend a flat-scan hospital...what if the doctors...who had sworn the Hippocratic Oath...were not tolerant of mutants? Kitty swore. So, instead, they were going to fly the Blackbird at some ridiculous speed—back to Westchester, back to the mansion, and the medlab. Xavier had already contacted a friend of his...some lady by the name of Moira.

Not that it mattered.

Kitty was relatively sure that one more doctor still only made two and with the upwards of twenty mutants they had pulled from those shiny canisters, not to mention the X-Men themselves, two doctors were not going to be nearly enough.

But the professor was certain that no one would perish on his shift.

As Kitty watched him now, she realized how old and tired he seemed. His eyes wavered for a moment, like he was trying to see through water, and she felt her breath catch. The movement was minute, hardly noticeable, but she had seen it many times before and knew what it meant.

"What did they say, Professor?" Her voice reminded her of her five-year-old self. Like she sounded when opening the first Hanukah present of the season...invested, but not sure whether she should get her hopes up. Swallowing, she saw the look on his face.

He licked his lips, clasped his hand on her forearm, and patted it awkwardly. "I-i-it's going to be all right. Kitty. I am certain." If he believed himself, he was giving an academy-award winning performance to the contrary.

Kitty was rapidly losing faith.

X

"Dear God!" Hank pulled a breath of air in and choked on it. There wasn't anything else he could say. Rendered speechless didn't happen to him very often.

Gambit's body was black and sooty. Hank wiped at his friend's hand; the black smeared off and he felt a fraction of the heaviness lift. But that was all. He was unconscious—_not good_—_CT scan needed to show damage_; Hank was unclear if it was from the impact from the explosion or if it was from pure exertion. If he had to guess, he'd probably say it was a deadly combination of the two.

Too bad he was still speechless.

Gambit's shoulder was covered by grimy bandages and what remained of a ripped sleeve. The wound had long ago overcome the confinements of the dressings. Dried blood skittered down his arm, bloody filigree that wound in and out in spidery patterns. His face was thin, gray. His breathing was shallow.

The good doctor lifted what was left of Remy's filthy shirt and examined his stomach. He winced—_check for internal injuries_. Purple-blue bruises pooled across his abs. No blood. No bullet-wound. And he was thankful that Remy had dealt Creed his hand before the monster had shot him. He grimaced remembering the way Creed had shoved the barrel of his gun into Remy's gut—how his madness swelled within that moment, an explosion in its own right.

He swallowed, _check the IV in Remy's arm_. _Check his blood pressure, his pulse, his breathing, his heartbeat, his shoulder_... _Cut the shirt off_. He had to operate on his friend's shoulder..._again_. _Complete scans, blood work...have to save him...make sure that he doesn't die...not after all he's saved...after...what he's been through._

There was so much...why did it feel as if he was moving in slow motion?

X

Normally, she would have been right in the middle of it. Right beside Hank, helping him in any way she could. But this, this was too much. Her brothers, both of them, lay in pain. JP's wounds...not life-threatening, but painful nonetheless. And Remy? Oh goddess! Her baby brother looked as if he had shot himself and then lit himself on fire. Hank assured her that the black soot would wash off, but his lack of wit and confidence—so uncharacteristic—put her in even deeper anguish. So she moved from bed to bed, checking on her brothers, on the other X-Men until finally, the anguish began to cave in around her. Then, she sat on a chair and cried.

X

She giggled, raked her fingernails across his stubbled chin, and then tugged, pulling his face down to meet hers. His lips were warm, tender, and he kissed her gently, brushing against her mouth like a feather, like if he released his hunger, lost control, she'd break under the ferocity of his kiss.

She smiled against his lips, pushed the strands of red-brown behind his ear, her fingers massaging the lobe. She shivered as his gaze darkened, his eyelids half-closing as he looked down at her. The intensity of his eyes unnerved her and excited her both at once. He smoothed a crooked finger down her cheek; she trembled. His eyes raised, and he fixed her with a look she hadn't seen. Not in several months. Not since her bedroom in Westchester. Not since he told her...

"_M'ecouter, petit l'un. Je suis dans l'amour avec vous. (Listen to me, little one. I am in love with you.)"_

"Re-my?" She questioned, her voice wavering, weak.

She blinked blearily as the slant of his smile straightened. As the crimson of his eyes...purpled...blued.

Remy dissipated before her, filtering into the air, shimmering, changing, rearranging until it was Joseph leaning over her, a worried look marring his features. Her breath caught. Her body shook. Glancing around, her eyes widened in fear. She was in a bed. In the Blackbird?

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, her chin crinkling with an unspent sob. "Joe?" She broke.

His fingers slipped through her hair. He dipped his head in, his thumb wiping a tear from her cheek.

"Oh, Anna," he whispered, kissing her hair. " You're okay."

Her lips trembled, frowned. More tears spilled down her face. She sniffed, sobbed. "Joe?"

He nodded. "Yes, it's me."

She shook her head, her eyes flickered around the room. Tears flowed freely. "No," her words were whispered, frightened. "No," she said again, clawing at the gurney, trying to pull herself up to a sitting position. "No!"

He pushed at her shoulders. "Anna, stay down."

"NO!" She was screaming, struggling. "Where is...? No. You're...not... REMY!"

* * *

Whew!

So, I'm incredibly sorry that it took me so long to update and I'm sorry that this chapter is so short. However I do want to thank everyone who read and reviewed my story or made it a favorite over the past several years. I hope that you enjoyed this chapter and I want you to know that I do plan to finish this story.

Let's move on the the questions!

How are the X-Men going to deal with the emotional repercussions of this mission? How is Rogue even remotely lucid? Will Remy survive? The future is not looking all that bright for our favorite mutants!


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Bile rose in his throat.

There, on a pile of dirt and brush, were his teammates—his friends.

Beside him, Logan's voice hissed out low, a slight hesitance betraying his fear. "Oh—damn." He moved forward, dropping to his knees as he did so; outstretching his arm, he moved in slow motion towards the young woman curled beside... Pulling off his gloves, he moved to find a pulse, his fingers hovering above her scratched neck.

"No," a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder.

He shrugged it off. "Listen, four-eyes-"

But Scott was in no mood for verbal sparring. He was suddenly exhausted. "Her power," he said simply, quietly. Then, his eyes widened as if remembering some old, forgotten something. "Her power!" He moved toward Rogue, cradling her and lifting her away from Gambit's broken and burned body.

"Hey!" Logan's tone was a curse in itself. "What the hell-?"

Scott shook his head. "They can't-! Her power!"

"He's immune!" Came the snap back.

Scott ignored him, his attention focusing on Bobby who had stooped beside Gambit's charred shell. "Is he alive?"

The younger man shook his head, his voice catching in his throat, before, "I-I don't know how he could be. He-"

"Check his pulse!"

Bobby jumped at the order barked in unison. He swallowed, grimaced, and touched his finger to the blackened skin at Gambit's neck. The skin felt pliable—alive. He held his breath.

Then...

_bump._

It was slight.

He was almost sure he imagined it.

_Bump._

His breath came out in a strangled half-laugh. "I felt it! Oh, my—I felt it!"

Emma's hand flew to her temple. _Professor, we need the Blackbird to the clearing behind the amphitheater. Colossus and Psylocke should be there. We are on our way. We have Gambit and Rogue!_

A soft tickle skirted her brain. The Professor's voice sounded throughout her consciousness. _How bad are they?_

_Rogue is unconscious, but she's in a dreamlike state. She's projecting, barely. Gambit—I can't get a read on him. At all. He has a pulse, but I don't know for how long._

X

"Kitty, I need you to get us to the amphitheater."

She started at the sudden change of tone and slid an eyebrow up her forehead in response. "Professor?"

He had just been patting her arm and speaking in a weary, disbelieving voice. And now, suddenly, a switch had flipped somewhere within him. The assertiveness made her blanch.

"Now."

It was only one word.

One tiny syllable.

But the faith wavering on the verge of the precipice keeled over. That one word said it all—the urgency, the sacrifice...

The demolition of a dream.

She didn't even nod in affirmation, just pulled herself to her feet and raced to the pilot's chair. She didn't bother with all of the pleasantries normally afforded a take-off, but barked into the intercom system in a voice that made those on-board hold their collective breaths.

"Grab hold of something! I'm bringing this bitch in fast!"

X

Hank secured the splint and sent a questioning look at the young man hissing on the chair in front of him. "Okay?"

Joe nodded, his breath shuddering through his body. "Hurts like hell," he managed a humorless chuckle.

Hank blew out a breath, clasped the man's shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. "Yes, well, it is broken, my friend. Badly. I'm afraid you will probably need surgery." He stopped, sucked at his teeth for a beat, then stood. "I regret that I must leave you in this state for the moment, but I must check on JP again."

Joe nodded. "How is he?"

"In pain."

X

His body—usually so vibrant, strong—seemed crumpled, broken as they waited for the Blackbird.

By now, Betsy and Piotr had found them and the former, tears streaming down her face, was combing her fingers through his dirty hair, smoothing wayward wisps behind his ears, whispering to him as she did so, in short, choked words that piqued the curiosity of the other woman at the scene.

Emma approached; Betsy's hand fluttered, stilled, and she placed it lightly on his shoulder, fingertips skimming his earlobe.

"Do you know him very well?"

Betsy's smile was slight, guarded. "Yes and no." She smoothed his hair again; a tear dropped to his chest.

"What are you telling him?"

Another sad smile, then, "That I am proud of him. That he saved us." She hesitated, nodded to the young woman who they had found tangled beside him. "That she loves him."

Emma nodded, glancing at the girl's prone form. "You love him, too?"

Betsy smiled again. "Yes. But different. He's very...charming. Sexy." She laughed behind a sob. "I wasn't very nice the last time... Seeing him like this—seeing her—just feeling guilty." Her fingers resumed their repetitive course and she leaned over him, her voice soft, kind, berry-colored lips a breath from his ear. "She loves you, Remy. Do you hear me? She loves _you._"

X

Ororo took one look at Remy's crumpled, burned body and all of her composure melted. She collapsed, so very uncharacteristic of her, that Scott was initially taken aback before pushing through the rest of the boarders to scoop her up in his arms and carry her, sobbing, back into the Blackbird. He felt the lump in his throat choking him as he glanced at the pain in her eyes.

She clutched at him, though she twisted in his arms to keep an eye on her brother. Tears slicked down her cheeks, following the well-worn trails of the day's toll.

She drew in a ragged breath, steeling herself as Hank stood gaping at her brother's still form.

"Dear God!"

"Henry?"

Her voice startled both men. It was calm, collected. Ororo was back...or at least her voice was. Scott set her down, but his hand remained on her arm, a lifeline and an anchor should she need either. He felt her body teeter as the Blackbird's jets picked up, but her sway was minute; she held her ground, her breakdown from moments before a bad memory.

"Is he-?" She cleared her throat, licked her lips, but couldn't bring herself to finish the question. She hoped that Hank had picked up a little telepathy.

Apparently, Scott had.

"Did he burn himself up in the explosion?"

Hank swallowed, rubbed a finger against one of Remy's hands; he felt himself loosen a fraction when he saw the soot smear away to reveal skin. "It wipes off." He indicated to Remy's hand. "See? It comes off."

Ororo nodded, her bottom lip quivered slightly.

Scott coughed. "I need-" he cleared his throat again. "I need you to follow up on all of the victims. Check to see that they are comfortable. If they need anything." He gripped her arm, shaking her slightly until her blue eyes, dim and unseeing, looked his way. "You can do this. Keep everyone calm."

She must have heard him because she nodded and then walked toward JP's bed. She had her hands full. The emotional barrage they had taken had worn them all down. They all had hit their shit limit. He licked his lips and turned back to an unusually quiet Hank.

"What do we do?" He tilted his head at his wounded friend.

Hank's eyes were unblinking, his voice cracked. "Pray."

X

He felt like an imbecile.

Well, actually, imbecile was way too kind for the way he viewed himself at the moment. In fact, he truly felt like a stupid son of a bitch. And as he watched the mini-ER scenes play out in front of him, they only served as chaotic reminders that this mess could have been thwarted. It didn't have to be this way.

A shiver of pain crawled through his body. He gritted his teeth against it, blew it out. He wanted to scream out in agony. And when they brought Remy in on the stretcher, his body blackened and broken, he did.

If only he had kept his head. If only he had retained control. None of this would have happened. They could have rescued Remy, released the captive mutants, gotten away...

But when Creed tipped that silver can... When he saw Remy spill out onto the stage, a heap of tangled limbs, as unceremoniously as a pile of garbage, something within him snapped. And in seconds, rapid-fire scenes from the mutant-cleansing exhibitions he had witnessed over the previous weeks assaulted him. Remy's fate—the fate of all those poor mutants—were linked with Death.

And within those few heartbeats, JP lost control.

And that loss of control, he silently berated himself now, as Ororo fussed over the make-shift splints on his arms, was the trigger for this whole debacle. And he was faced with the overwhelming irony of the situation: if he had fought against the urge to save Remy, Remy would have been saved.

But something had come over him—an innate desire to protect his family. And, long before the X-Men, it had been Remy, Ororo, and himself grouped together against the utter racism between the flat-scans and their mutant brethren. He had always felt a need to protect his brother and sister, and perhaps, because Remy was the baby of the trio, that sense of responsibility outweighed rational strategy.

Ororo understood. Of that, JP had no doubt. And if he really thought about it, he believed they all understood. To some degree, Remy was their brother as well. But it did little to alleviate the gnawing feeling in his gut that his slip up had cost them the mission.

Or worst yet, Remy.

X

"NO! Where is...? No. You're...not... REMY!"

Her eyes were... They were usually a clear, sparkling green, but this time, it was like he'd never seen them before. They were a wild swirl of gray and green. And he felt a strange feeling like he was in a boat somewhere lost in a torrent. This was enough to send him reeling backwards, to sting him with the reality that while he thought he knew her—loved her even—there was a part of her that didn't belong to him.

But coupled with the outburst...with that name...he felt like he'd been punched in the gut.

Those eyes belonged to that name.

Not to him.

He held her shoulders down. His teeth grinding from this realization as well as the throbbing burst pouring up and down his leg. "Lorna!" He barked at his sister.

She was next to them in seconds, fixing restraints across Rogue's arms and legs and throwing worried looks at her brother.

Rogue fought against them. Her eyes wild, unseeing through the waterfall of tears sliding down her face. "Oh, gawd... Where is he? Where is he?"

Lorna patted the other woman's arm. "Joe's right-"

"She's looking for Gambit." He ground out, collapsing in a nearby chair, grimacing at the ache in his leg.

X

Hank laced his fingers together and rested his head against his hands. It was too much. There were too many people hurt and suffering. He had to prioritize the victims. Obviously, everyone expected him to work on those who were the worst-off first. And Remy was by far the worst. But the mutants that had still been in the cylinders...they had been bad as well. And then, well, the rest of the X-Men weren't unscathed. It was overwhelming. It was devastating.

He glanced down at his patient. He'd given Remy an IV, had cleaned his shoulder, and had managed, with help from Scott, to clean off most of the soot from the explosion.

He knew what the leader of the X-Men was feeling. Responsibility. For the failure of a mission. For the physical and mental wounds that each bore and would bear for the rest of their lives. And the guilt that he might lose yet another X-Men, another friend. It was like losing Jean all over again, granted on a lesser level. But Remy was like the kid-brother Scott had never wanted but wouldn't trade for anything. They had a unique relationship, different from the one Remy shared with Ororo and JP, but nonetheless one based on friendship and a touch of good-natured sibling rivalry.

Suddenly, there was screaming towards the front of the Blackbird. Hank's head jerked up and he squinted into the throng. He looked questioningly at Scott, who stood staring, slack-jawed at Remy. Hank dropped his gaze and felt his heart seize.

Two red orbs glowed up at him, and then, fluttered closed.

X

Xavier sat in the cockpit; Kitty was in the pilot's chair.

Her brown eyes focused ahead with such resolve that he didn't need telepathy to tell she was avoiding him, canceling his presence by pretending he wasn't there. He sighed, steepled his fingers before his face and took a deep breath.

"Kitty," he began.

She hissed through her teeth, hunched her shoulders, and pushed her head down, scrutinizing the mechanisms on the Bird's control panel.

He knew that was a warning, but he pressed on, ignoring the choice words running through her brain, and quite accidentally, through his as well.

"You are angry." It was a simple statement of fact.

She raised an eyebrow and spared him a quick glance. Sarcasm bit back. "Wow, you really are telepathic." Next came a wave of guilt at having spoken to an elder, not to mention a mentor, in such a cold manner. "Sorry."

He pursed his lips. "No need to be. I am quite pissed as well."

Her eyebrow crooked up at that and she fixed him with a genuine look. "Yeah?"

He nodded. "This is, by all possible accounts, my fault. Had I not pushed for this mission, for this covert operation, we would not be in the proverbial fire. We would, in fact, be enjoying a nice spot of tea and lounging abut the pool." He swallowed, rubbed circles against his temple. "I just thought we could make some type of difference." He laughed, it was self-deprecating. "I thought we would make a real difference."

Kitty nodded. "And we did, Professor."

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow.

She continued, flipping switches, tapping at gauges. "Those mutants—the ones in the cylinders, and probably those in the hunt... We saved them. We got the Friends focusing on us—well, on Remy, anyway. And they got away. We rescued them from the Friends. It's not a huge success," she admitted, "but it _is_ a difference."

"But the cost?" His voice was low, a graveled quality marring its normally clear timbre. "Was our cost—that of our friends—of Remy—was it worth it?"

She felt numb, but a warmth was radiating behind the bridge of her nose and she knew tears would not be far behind. "Remy saved JP," she said at last. "And he saved Rogue." Tears spilled across the bottom of her eyelids. "We all know—we all knew—that this mission could have casualties."

Xavier's head was down. His shoulders shook almost imperceptibly. He drew in a deep breath, rubbed his hands down his face, and straightened himself in his wheelchair.

"We need to radio ahead. Luckily, my friend was in New York when I contacted her. She should be at the mansion by now. Jubilee is one of the only senior officers at the school; we've brought in various members of X-Corp to serve as teachers during this mission. We need to let her, as well as them, know what we need. Hank has a list of trusted physicians we can contact if needed. I believe they are needed today." He reached for the radio, paused, and looked appraisingly at Kitty.

"Thank you."

She looked at him, surprised by the softness in his voice. "For what, Professor?"

"For your faith."

X

Scott grabbed the IV stand. "We're here." His voice was low, commanding.

Hank nodded, standing beside the gurney. "We need to get him straight to surgery. He's as stable as he's going to get. I've cleaned his shoulder. During my inspection, I noticed the bullet appears to have hit mostly scar tissue—from the last time he got shot."

"Damn it, Remy," came the hissed reply. "Stop getting yourself fucking shot."

Hank raised an eyebrow. "I doubt very much he intentionally-"

Scott cut him off. "Right now, Hank, I need to be mad at him. Otherwise," he cleared his throat, shoved gently at Remy's foot. "C'mon, you good-for-nothing prick."

The two men pushed their patient quickly down the corridor, past the freed-mutants, past the X-Men. As they moved through the throng, the air around them crackled with a nervous energy. Remy's form, gray and unmoving, sucked the breath from everyone that saw him, but filtered the anger already thrumming within them, pulling it once again to the forefront of their minds.

And then the silence split. A thick, bloody razor-sharp cry burst through the anger and turned it to anguish.

Scott's head snapped up. Hank stilled the transport, his eyes widening at what he saw.

Beside the aisle, fighting the restraints on her own gurney, was Rogue. Remy's bed had stopped right beside hers. Tears streamed down her face, forming from the puddles pooling beneath her tumultuous eyes. She was drowning in them, and she sobbed as she tried to free herself from the bands holding her to the bed.

"P-p-please..." she choked. "Oh, gawd...Remy!"

Scott shook his head, but before he could speak, Ororo flew to Remy's bedside, and snatched her brother's bed from Hank's hands, pushing it away from Rogue.

Brows knitted in anger over ice-cold blue eyes, and she threw over her shoulder, "Are you trying to kill him? Can't you see you've done enough?"

Rogue pulled back, her face crumpling, her body drawing in on itself like she had just been slapped. She dropped her head to her bed, her sobs wracking her body, but she was no longer struggling against the straps.

Hank looked at her, following behind the others at a much slower pace. He shook his head, stilled his breathing, tried to add up what nobody else had seen. When she had screamed, everyone's eyes had been on Rogue. But he had been watching Remy.

The glowing eyes burned in his mind.

X

The walls of the med-lab were a stark white. So was the ceiling. And as she lay there, she had the overwhelming feeling of being trapped in a sugar cube. Huffing, she turned to her good side, wincing slightly from the bullet wound in her upper thigh. It was hardly a bullet wound, she conceded, it was much more like a bullet graze, but it still hurt like a bitch. She really should have been released by now, but Hank had muttered some hokum about wanting to keep an eye on her for infection. Something that could be easily accomplished during check-ups.

They had been back at the Institute for a few days; she was still unsure to what extent the damage had actually been. No one was really divulging any information.

She poked at her thigh. Pain seared down her leg.

That wasn't entirely true. She knew about the ten mutants they'd freed from the cans. She knew about Joe's leg, JP's wounds, and Betsy's concussion. Kitty had been to visit and had leaned her head down in a conspiring whisper to tell her that Betsy had been to visit Sam several times.

Rogue asked how Sam was, worried that perhaps she had taken too much from him when she kissed him at the Reserve. Kitty just shrugged, "Groggy, but otherwise, he's the same old Sam."

But when she turned her face to meet her friend's, and asked in a low voice—pleaded, really—about Remy. The younger woman's eyes slid away and she gave an uncomfortable laugh and excused herself.

Hank had been comparably cryptic.

Scott pretended he didn't hear the question at all.

Rogue picked at her fingernails, a new wave of tears slid down her face, wetting her pillow. _Three days_, she sniffled to herself, _three days Ah've been layin' in this damn bed and no one will tell me about Remy._

She felt her brow stitch together as she remembered Ororo's hateful words: _"Are you trying to kill him? Can't you see you've done enough?"_

"It's mah fault." Saying the words aloud brought a fresh flood of tears as though admitting it out loud made it more true. Which, of course, it was. If Creed hadn't shot her, Remy would not have tried to protect her. And Creed wouldn't have shot her if she had told Remy how she felt when he had asked her.

"_M'ecouter, petit l'un. Je suis dans l'amour avec vous. (Listen to me, little one. I am in love with you.)"_

Those words haunted her dreams. Hell, they haunted her when she was awake. What if...what if she never got to hear them again?

And that was it. _That_ sent her over the edge. Like hell she was going to let that happen. She was not going to let her last moment with him end with Ororo bitching her out and rolling him away. She gritted her teeth and kicked the blankets from her body.

Pulling a robe around her shoulders, Rogue padded down the short corridor, wincing at her aggravated leg. She glanced into a room, but Remy was not inside. She continued her slow trek, fear building in the pit of her stomach as each room she peered inside left her empty-handed. Soon there was only one room left. Rogue's heart seized. What if he wasn't in there? What if the reason no one was telling her anything was..because...? She let out a shaky breath. She squared her shoulders and peered through the thin window in the door.

Remy was there.

Her breath left her completely. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass and tentatively touched her fingertips to the doorknob.

He was unconscious; wires covered him, monitors surrounded him. His skin was a chalky gray. Around his shoulder, a clean set of bandages were wound. His reddish-brown hair lay limp and dull against his brow. His eyes were closed, but she let herself imagine the darkness of them, the swirling pools of shining red. It made her cry. She wanted to burst into the room and snuggle beside him, to feel the warmth of his body pressed against hers.

And she was suddenly reminded of a different time Remy was in that room. And she couldn't visit him because of her damned power. Or his damned power. He couldn't heal with her around. His body would be too busy protecting him from her to focus on healing him. And Ororo's words spilled into her mind: _"Are you trying to kill him?"_

She let her hand fall to her side. Sparring one last glance at the man she knew she loved, she turned from the door.

"Good afternoon, Rogue."

She jumped, evidently caught red-handed. Blinking, she shot a look back at the door; fear widening behind her eyes. "Ah didn't-Ah didn't go in, Hank, Ah swear. Ah don't wanna—Ah would never hurt him. Ah mean, Ah.." She swallowed, shoved her hands into the pockets of her robe.

Hank looked at her, his gaze scrutinizing her. "I think, perhaps, you should visit him."

She started at that. "What? No, no...Ah couldn't! Ah mean, mah powers'll kill him."

He nodded at her statement. "Yes. I remember my hypothesis from earlier." He stopped, quietly weighing his next words. He shrugged, "Hypotheses change." He gripped her arm. "Did you take your pill?"

She nodded, her eyes wide as she stared at him.

"Then, I believe you will be fine." He pushed at the door.

She struggled, her head shaking, as she dug her heels into the floor. "But what if you're wrong? And you heard, Ororo. She doesn't want me anywhere near him. Ah can't hurt him, Hank. It'll kill me if Ah hurt him anymore."

Her face wore such a pained look that he released his hold of her arm and let the door slide closed. Gripping her shoulders, he shook her attention to his face.

"Rogue—look at me. No, look at me," he commanded when she refused to meet his gaze. "He needs you. You make a difference to him. One that nothing I have done has been able to mimic. As his doctor, I _insist_ that you visit him. For his own good."

She nodded, swiped at the tears. "But, Ororo..." she swallowed. "It's mah fault."

His head dropped and he rolled his massive shoulders. "There is an awful lot of guilt going around right now. Everyone feels it; everyone feels responsible. The problem with guilt is that it's a disease, a blight on the consciences of those who share it. It poisons the mind and the soul and siphons away the innocence within us. You are no more to blame for what happened than anyone else. In my mind, one person carries the weight of responsibility for what we witnessed: Graydon Creed. He cultivated hate and fear and used them as weapons against a group of people that he despised, for whatever reason he despised them. I doubt very much that his reasons even made sense. Hate has a way of twisting the truth until it retains very little." He raised his eyes to hers. "No, Rogue, it's not your fault."

She felt her breath stutter as she let it out.

He smiled, it was tight, sad. "Would you like to visit him?"

Her face squeezed; fresh tears leaked from her eyes. "Yes, Hank. Oh, gawd, yes, Ah would."

He pushed open the door.

Remy's room was much like her own...completely white and clinical, devoid of personality in a way that made her shudder with how impartial it was toward its boarder. The difference between the two rooms was the array of monitors that horse-shoed around the head of his bed; her bed was not peppered with such gadgets, a tell-tale sign that his wounds greatly trumped her own. Now that she was in the room, she could plainly see his face and it made her drag in a suffering breath.

He looked like he was asleep.

Which, she silently admonished herself, he was. But it was different. It seemed to be much more permanent than just sleep. _That_ caught in her throat and she coughed quietly, not wanting to disturb him, but praying he would sit up and growl at her for interrupting his nap.

She moved toward him, her feet inaudible against the smooth tile floor. Glancing back at Hank, she licked her lips. "Is he...napping?"

Hank shook his head. "No." Moving forward, he placed his hand between her shoulder-blades and nudged her closer to the bed. "He is unresponsive. Here." He grabbed a comfortable-looking chair from the far corner of the room and dragged it to her.

The _scratch_ reverberated throughout the room, and, Rogue was sure, the entire med-lab. She turned a hopeful gaze to Remy.

Nothing.

Not even a flutter of his eyelids.

She felt like she'd been kicked in the stomach. Her lips trembled as she asked, "How bad is he? Really?"

Hank set his lips back into a line. "I'm doing everything I can."

"That doesn't answer my question," her voice was heavier than he'd ever heard before.

His lips dipped into a frown. "Talk to him, Rogue. Tell him how you are, how you feel, what you want. Make sure you tell him what you want."

Her voice was strangled as she sobbed, "I want him to be okay." She dropped into the chair, her hands searching out his and pressed a kiss into his knuckles.

Hank nodded, moved back to the door. "And don't worry about Ororo and JP. I'll take care of them." He disappeared out the door, but glanced back into the room.

Rogue scooted the chair even closer to Remy's bed, then put her head against his pillow, her face inches from his own, his hand hidden within hers.

X

"How is it that Remy was nearly burnt to a crisp and she doesn't have a spot on her?"

A breath—slow, weighted—then, "He was not burnt to a crisp, just filthy, and I would hardly compare a bullet graze with a 'spot'." Hank pulled a pair of spectacles from their perch on his nose and rubbed the inside corners of his eyes. "This is what I have inferred, mind you—just my hypothesis." He received the affirmative nod he desired so he continued, "We know that Rogue absorbed Sam's powers. I think that as the explosion was happening—perhaps within seconds of the actual ignition—Rogue's body responded biologically, protecting her with whatever mutant arsenal of which she was currently in possession. I think she instinctively grabbed Remy to get him out of the direct explosion. However, his power—the sheer force of the explosion—it-it was uncontainable—the best word I can come up with is vehement—like the sun exploded—supernova."

"But why isn't she really hurt?"

Hank licked his lips, his head moving from side to side. "When he's using his power, Sam is invulnerable. So it only reasons that Rogue was invulnerable to the explosion; Gambit was not."

Ororo nodded, tears spilling down smooth cheeks. She drew in a shaky breath. "I know—I know what I sound like," she brushed the tears away, hands trembling. "Like I'm mad that she's okay. I'm not. I'm—I would never want anything bad to happen to her. It's just-" her face squeezed, her features changing with the fresh flood of tears, "-he's my brother. And I can't help—I cannot help but believe—so much of this was for her." She collapsed against Hank, her hands grabbing the collar of his white coat.

He nodded, aware of the futility of this action—aware she couldn't see it. He was biding time—sifting through his words, building his response with as much precision as possible given the current situation. Finally, he cleared his throat. "I believe Remy is in love with her." He felt Ororo still against his chest. He breathed, continued. "I believe that—given certain information—he allowed himself to be captured to save both her and Sam, as well as Lorna. And—this is imperative—no one coerced him; no one suggested. Remy did what he did to protect her. And I believe that she did what she could to protect him-"

"But look at-"

"Yes, look at him. Do you want to see Creed? If she hadn't have pulled him away, Ororo, we would be solving a very gruesome jigsaw. I wish circumstances were different. But this is the hand we've been dealt."

She allowed a slight, albeit morose smile at the metaphor and nodded. "Is he—going to-?"

Hank let out a breath. "I've done everything I can."

She sobbed.

He gripped her shoulders. "Remy has to fight a little more, 'Ro. I'm afraid he's very tired. He has to have a reason."

"But what can I do? JP and I have been to see him everyday. And there has been no change."

"Remy loves you. And he loves JP. You are his sister and brother. But, you are not the ones he is going to live for."

"But you said before, his power won't let him heal with her. It's trying too hard to protect him."

"I hypothesize that her medicine will change that. However, I don't know for sure. But I do know, I _know_, if she doesn't visit him, if he doesn't believe he has something worth living for, he won't. I _know _this. You _know_ this."

"What is your evidence? How do you know that he'll even know she's there? He hasn't opened his eyes since we picked him up from the amphitheater!" She was pacing now, her body shaking with anger and uselessness.

"Actually, he's opened them twice."

"What?" Ororo and JP both looked up at that.

Ororo narrowed her eyes at him. "When?"

"On the Blackbird. When Rogue woke up and called for him. And when she was crying as we rolled him out."

Ororo's shoulders slumped and her breath wavered. "Oh, goddess." She covered her face with her hands. "Oh, Remy."

JP cleared his throat. "Hell of a choice, _non?_"

Ororo looked at him, salt trails lined her cheeks. "There is no choice."

Nodding, JP glanced at Hank. "Will she come?"

Hank mirrored JP. "She will do whatever Remy needs."

X

"I thought you might be in here." His voice was soft, but she detected a hint of accusation.

She lifted her head and blinked at the door. A yawn shook her body as she sat up in the chair, wincing at the stiffness in her body. She was vaguely aware that she'd been in that position for several hours and, as she stretched in a deepening yawn, that it was now nighttime.

The lights in Remy's room had been turned down until only small light glowed above the sink. The effect did little to cancel the clinical setting, but, Rogue thought, was easier on the eyes.

She sighed, finally finding her voice enough to recognize her visitor. "Joe."

"So you do remember."

Her brow furrowed. "Pardon?"

He cleared his throat, his body filling the doorway. "My name. I thought maybe you'd forgotten it." He moved into the room, stopping behind her chair and looked down at Remy. She watched his face; it was masked, and she instinctively reached for Remy's hand. A shadow passed over his features, but he dismissed it quickly and tilted his chin toward the bed. "How's the patient?"

She glanced between the two men, her eyes on Remy a beat longer. She looked up at Joseph from under her lashes. "He's-" her voice died on her lips; she dropped her gaze.

Joseph nodded, leaned into the chair and raked his fingers through the tousle of curls at the top of her head. She jumped at the familiarity; he pretended not to notice.

"I get it, you know," he admitted, twisting a curl around his finger.

She raised her eyes to his. "You do?" It sounded doubtful.

He nodded again, his fingers dipping from her hair and whispering down her cheek. She flinched; he pretended not to notice.

"Sure," he continued, sliding his fingers to her ear and tugging gently at her earlobe. "Of course. He's your partner. You're going to worry about his well-being." He smiled; it didn't reach his eyes.

She withdrew from his caress; glanced nervously at Remy's unmoving body.

Joseph watched as she reached across the bed and gently pushed his hair back from his forehead. Her fingers slid down his cheek and she pressed her palm there. Joseph had a sudden uneasiness twist at his gut, like he was seeing something intimate. Her touch was delicate, soft, and he felt that uneasiness slip into jealousy.

"Rogue."

It was low, guttural.

She glanced up, her hands stilling against Remy's face.

Joseph moved around the chair, pulling her from her perch. She didn't like the darkness swirling in his eyes or the sharp set of his jaw. It made him look...predatory. He dropped his hands from her arms and pressed them against his side. She watched as they opened and closed, straining to remain there. It seemed as if he was fighting to keep them controlled.

She cleared her throat, glancing quickly at Remy, suddenly very afraid that Joseph might do something to him. She looked back to the silver-haired man. A squeak erupted from her lips at the sudden closeness; Joseph stood inches from her. He pushed farther into her space until her breasts skimmed his chest. She tried to step back, to put distance between them, but he snaked his arm behind her and held her against him.

He stared down at her, his eyes piercing her with their coldness. She kept her head down, but looked up at him from under her lashes, her breath catching. Her nerves were on fire and she swallowed down the irony of it all. When she first met him, she wanted him this close, to take her in his arms, to feel his body pushed against hers, but now—now she wanted him away from her—away from Remy.

His hand came up—slowly. He hooked a finger under her chin; she took the gesture—guilt churning within her—and allowed him to raise her face to meet his gaze.

"Rogue," his voice was quiet, almost gentle.

She shook her head, casting her eyes down.

He shoved the chair across the room. Its scrape thundered through the med-lab.

"I don't understand you," he ground out, eyes narrowed. "You want _him_?" He jabbed the air toward Remy. "After he humiliated you in front of your class? Huh? Or—or how he insulted you? Did you forget about those things?" He pushed past her, leering down at Remy. "He's an asshole." Turning, his face screwed into a sneer. "You know what? I can be an asshole too." And he grabbed her, pulling her to him as his lips crushed hers.

She screamed into his mouth, struggled to free her arms from his grasp. He tightened his grip, shoved his tongue into her mouth, ground her body against his own.

He yelled, pushed her away, and wiped at his mouth. Blood trickled down to his chin. "You bit me!"

She was shaking, but her voice was even. "Don't you ever touch me again."

"Am I interrupting?"

They both turned to the door to see Hank looming in the doorway. His eyes narrowed behind his spectacles.

Joseph spat blood on the floor before shoving past her. "No, we're through." He waited for Hank to move aside before slipping into the corridor.

She hugged her arms to her chest, still shaking from the confrontation. Hank tilted his head, cleared his voice. "Are you...?"

"Ah'm fine." But her lip trembled.

"Of course." He moved toward her, making a sick face at the blood on his floor. "Normally, I would say that I hoped I hadn't intruded, but this time, I don't care if I did." He stood over Remy, watching him sleep, before turning to her once more. "I've been monitoring him from my office," he explained. "For the last several minutes, his heartbeat and brain monitors have been showing a heightened activity."

She rubbed her hands down her neck. "Yeah?"

He nodded, watching her face. "Are you sure you're okay?"

She ran to him, burying her face in his chest and squeezing the tears from her eyes. "Ah'm just...Ah'm scared, Hank. Ah don't know-" He drew in a sharp breath; she looked up at him. "Hank?"

He glanced down at her before turning her around and nudging her toward the bed. Confused, she peeked at him from over her shoulder to see him staring, slack-jawed, ahead. Moving toward the bed, she felt her heart skip.

Open. His eyes were open.

She hit her knees beside his bed. Yes, his eyes were open, but to her dismay, they were unfocused as if a thick invisible glaze blanketed their usual brightness. She felt her lip tremble, but swallowed it down. She reached out to him. Her fingers were a hair-breadth away when she pulled back, trembling. She shook her head, took in a deep breath, and pushed her hand toward him again. This time she did it. Her fingertips grazed his jaw and she felt the rough stubble growing there. She flattened her hand, cupped his chin, and ever-so-slightly tugged his face toward hers. His face moved, but still there was no spark in his eyes. She licked her lips and reached out her other hand. Both palms framed his face, pressing into his cheeks. She willed him to look at her, begged for a glimmer, a glint...anything...that told her he was still in there, that he was still with her. She saw a tear land beneath one of his eyes and realized she was crying. Her mouth stretched into a thin line and she smudged the drop with her thumb.

At her touch, something shifted. And suddenly, she was looking into those deep, dark eyes and saw recognition. His brow furrowed; a sob escaped her lips and she leaned into him, grazing his mouth with her own. She brushed his bangs back from his eyes and smiled as they crinkled slightly. The edges of his mouth lifted and she traced his lips with her fingertips.

Gathering his hand in her own, she pressed more kisses against his knuckles and then into his palm. She felt it tremble, and he moved it to her face. His thumb wiped at her own tears while his fingers tangled into the curls at her neck. She watched him, drawing in short, shaky breaths as he wiped away the tears still crawling down her face. She felt his hand slacken against her cheek; his brow furrowed. She shook her head, laced her fingers into his and kissed each of his fingertips. She pressed her free hand against his cheek. When his eyes rolled back into his head, she fell against the bed and cried into his neck.

* * *

Thank you for reviewing! Please review again! :)

Happy New Year!

There really is only one question: Remy?


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

_You've got to promise not to stop when I say when_

Foo Fighters, **Everlong**

"Ya look awful."

"Well, _ch__é__re_, I _was_ shot." He smiled despite the weight of his words and turned to face her. "_Desol__é_," he whispered at the way her mouth turned down. "Bad joke."

Shaking her head, she laid on his pillow. "Ya need to rest. Ah'll come back later. Ya're probably sick of me anyway..."

He looked down at her. "_Non_. I'm not. Here." He scooted over and patted the bed beside him. "Why don' you lay up here next to me?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, come on. If'n I wanted t' seduce you, I sure as hell wouldn't do it here." He smiled wickedly, then, "'Less you like dis kind o' thing."

She shook her head. "Shove over, Sparky."

"Now see. You didn' actually say no. Gives a man hope."

She rolled her eyes, but didn't say anything; instead, she curled into him, her head laying on his good shoulder. He curved his arm around her and fingered the ends of her wild curls. Quiet fell over them like a comfortable blanket and Rogue was certain he had fallen asleep. She looked up at him from under her lashes and saw that he was still awake. His face was calm, open. In that moment, she realized how young he really was. He always seemed so much older, more worldly than her, but right then, with his face relaxed and his breathing deep, she saw a young man. A _handsome_ young man.

She hadn't forgotten that he was handsome. She'd found him attractive the first time she saw him. It was just...it was different. Normally, there was some expression on his face. Some cocky half-grin or a grimace of some kind. But at that moment, he was just...peaceful. And a little vulnerable.

Heaven help her, maybe she did like this kind of thing.

She pursed her lips. "Remy?"

He glanced down at her, his mouth tilting up ever so slightly.

"Ah was-" she drew in a deep breath against the tears threatening behind her eyes. "Ah was really scared. Ah really thought Ah was gonna lose you." She swallowed, licked her lips. "Some hero, huh? Scared shitless. Oh, mah gosh, you scared me shitless."

Red eyes glittered down at her; he could see her clean to her soul, she was sure. She felt uneasy under his gaze and shifted in the bed before looking back up at him.

He smiled tightly. "When Creed shot you, I t'ought I'd die." He grimaced and moved his wounded arm toward her to trace his fingers down her cheek. "Hush, now. We both gon' need to rest." He tilted her head up and pressed a kiss on her forehead.

"Remy?"

"_Ou__í__?"_

"...Sweet dreams."

"_Beaux r__ê__ves, p'tite." _(Sweet dreams, little one.)

X

"How long will rehabilitation last?"

"He _was_ shot, Scott. Twice, actually. Not an insignificant amount. Of course, the argument _could_ be made that being shot even once is difficult." Hank inspected his spectacles for smudges before slipping them back on his face. "He needs time."

Scott sucked at his teeth; Hank made a sour face.

"We don't have time. You saw the video surveillance."

"What I saw changes nothing." He placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Let him alone. He needs to gain strength and comfort."

Scott peered through the glass window of Remy's door. "Well, he looks pretty comfortable to me. In fact, it's grotesque how 'comfortable' he's looking."

X

He was not in an easy position, Remy decided. Rogue curled against him, her breathing steady, slow, warming his good side into a comfortable quasi relaxation. His other side? Throbbed like a mother. But that wasn't what was weighing on his mind as he felt her shift beside him and let out a breathy sigh.

No, it was much more serious than that.

Remy knew that he had broken one of the most important rules of the X-Men. And, not only had he broken it, he had actually broken it twice. Two times he had taken a life. Granted, both were crazed psychopaths bent on killing every mutant they crossed, but he knew Scott and Xavier. Rules were set in stone, unyielding to circumstances. Black and white. Cut and dry. And he had committed a cardinal sin. Twice.

Grinding his teeth, against the pain, he shifted, turning his body away from Rogue's warmth and laying on his bad side. Searing pain cut through his muscles before the pressure from his weight stopped it.

He knew what breaking the rules could mean for him. He could be exiled from the X-Men, the school...from her. That would be her choice, of course, but he doubted very much that she would be willing to survive the way that he knew how. Stealing a living was not her thing. Deep down he wished it wasn't his thing either.

The uncertainty of his situation wasn't the only thing keeping him from joining her in sleep.

His dreams were bloodied and broken versions of the reality he lived. Sometimes, he would find himself gripping Creed's shirt only to watch him shift into Lane and back again. He would pour his power into them until they glowed radioactive. Then he would watch as they became little more than red vapor. This was always followed by the Professor or Scott or whoever clamping chains around his arms and hauling him into a dungeon fit for a dragon.

Sometimes he hesitated. They were the worse dreams of all, he decided, when he hesitated. They always ended with Rogue slashed from her navel to her neck and him kneeling in a puddle of her blood trying to revive her. When he had that dream, he vomited all over the floor.

He knew he had broken a rule. A huge rule, to be sure. But, he also knew, he _knew_ that he had made the only decision he could. He knew his dreams, as mutilated as they were, were not that far off from the reality that would have been. Better he be destroyed than to see those he loved destroyed.

And if he lost his home, his family, his love...he would be.

He hadn't spoken to Xavier or Scott. They'd both been to visit him on numerous occasions, but he had simply feigned sleep to avoid them. Scott would flick him in the ear and call him an asshole. Xavier would simply sit and wait for him to awaken. It took all his nerve to wait the old man out.

"Yes, you've become very adept at faking sleep."

Remy started at that, and despite himself, sent a way-too-obvious glance over his shoulder.

Xavier sat beside Rogue's side of the bed, his fingers steepled together.

Remy rolled his eyes and pursed his lips. "Professor." He grimaced and turned to face the older man. "You sneak up on me?"

Xavier shook his head. "Not at all. You were lost in your thoughts and didn't hear me."

"Uh-huh."

Xavier sighed, "Remy, we need to talk."

He shook his head. "_Non_, we don'. I know what ya gon' say. I broke de rule. I killed two people. Dere ain' no place for a murderer in de X-Men."

The Professor chewed on the corner of his mouth. "I see you've been considering the obvious."

A self-deprecating smile, then, "_Ou__í_. What else?"

Xavier looked thoughtful. "Tell me, Remy. Why did you kill Lane and Creed?"

"If I didn't kill 'em, they woulda killed me. Or Rogue. Hell, anybody that was a mutant."

"I agree. I believe that is called self-defense. I also believe that if you weren't a mutant, no jury in the world would convict you. That being said, you are a mutant. And while you are guaranteed a free and unbiased trial of your peers by the rules of our government, there is no real guarantee that you would get one. You can't look at a person and know whether or not they are unprejudiced and I doubt very much that the Friends of Humanity would permit your testimony to be weighed by a jury of mutants. I also don't think that they will be seeking a police investigation into the deaths of Creed and Lane. That would jeopardize their society; I think even 'normal' people would question their methods. If it ever does come to that, we have cataloged the entire mission. We have eye-witness testimony. We have surveillance feeds."

"What're ya sayin'?"

"I'm saying that you will always have a home here. With the school. With the X-Men." He paused, catching Remy's glance to Rogue. "As for her, that's not up to me. But, if I were a betting man..." He began to roll away from the bed. "You belong here, Remy."

X

"Did you tell him?"

Xavier looked up from his desk and fixed his brown eyes on his visitor. "No, Scott, I did not."

Scott dropped into one of the chairs opposite the professor and leaned forward, his knuckles knocking nervously against the desk's smooth surface. "I think it's important."

Xavier nodded, "I agree. But I also think that a little timing is necessary. Besides, whether we tell him now or later isn't going to effect him more or less."

"I understand that, Professor, but it just seems better to get it out in the open. No surprises."

Xavier rubbed his hand against his chin. "Is that borne of a guilty conscience?" When Scott didn't answer, Xavier clasped his hands before him and sighed. "You did what you thought was appropriate given the situation. Hindsight is always 20/20. Scott, you are a very gifted leader and strategist, but, despite what many may believe, you are only human and therefore, you are subject to mistakes."

"Mine could have cost us lives."

"Yes, well, mine could have as well."

"Sir?"

"It was my plan. I was the one who decided to infiltrate the Friends on a multiple front. I am just as guilty as everyone else for the failure of this mission." His eyes fell to his desktop, and he traced a pattern in the wood grain. "Does the in-tel change how you feel about Remy's presence at the school?"

Scott straightened, "No, not at all. He deserves to be here."

"He was under the impression that he was going to have to leave."

"What?"

"He killed two people, Scott. We have always stressed that X-Men don't kill. I think it seemed logical to him that he would be banished."

"You told him, though?"

"Of course. I think every one of us would have made the same choice."

"Damn straight."

Xavier started at that, a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I echo that feeling."

X

She woke up shivering.

It confused her. She'd been so warm, so comfortable, and then, suddenly, she hadn't. It seemed as if the warmth had been simply stolen from her body. She kept her eyes closed, hoping that would allow her to fall back to sleep with little incidence. She reached to the foot of the bed, snagged the bedspread and pulled it to cover her body. Then she snuggled in toward Remy.

He wasn't there.

Her eyes opened. She shook the sleep from her head as she waited for her eyes to focus on the indentation in his pillow and the carelessly heaped blankets on his side of the small bed. She rubbed at her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.

Shaking her head, she kicked the covers from her legs and placed her bare feet on the cold infirmary floor.

"Remy?" Her voice was a sleepy whisper as she stared into the darkness of the room. Hearing no response, she padded over to the bathroom door and pushed it ajar. "Remy?" She asked again. Still there was no answer and she was awake.

Rounding back to the bed, she ran a tired hand across her forehead before deciding to buzz Hank.

"Salutations," Hank's cheery voice was a direct contrast to the dark room. "Is everything copacetic?"

Rogue rubbed her eyes. "Hank," she croaked, her voice husky from sleep, "where's Remy?"

There was a pause. "Isn't he with you?"

X

Gravel skittered across the pavement and crunched beneath a pair of heavy boots. The boots moved across the way, slipping and dipping in and out of shadows that seemed to have their own agendas. An uncovered man-hole was side-stepped, and the boots continued on their way, stopping ten feet away to lean against a brick wall.

Remy scuffed a toe against the cement, disrupting a small pile of pebbles that had gathered near the building he was using as a crutch. They tumbled and rolled, the sound much louder than the alley actually could afford.

Some where an alley-cat howled and hissed.

He ignored the defamation and, instead, reached into one of his many pockets. His nimble fingers pulled out an unopened package of playing cards. He sighed, ran a fingertip across the cellophane packaging and watched with little interest as the plastic melted into nothingness. He slipped the cards from their holder, tossing the cardboard into a nearby garbage can. He cracked the cards, bending them forwards and backwards. It was a nervous habit of his. He never wanted to be caught off-guard, without a back-up plan. So, he prepared his arsenal; 52 light-weight bombs were at his disposal. He twisted his wrist; the cards disappeared, deposited seamlessly into the hidden compartments up his sleeves. Sighing, he dug into his pockets once more. Retrieving a cigarette, he lit the tip with his power as his eyes scanned the area. He recognized the terrain; he'd fought on it before. It wasn't his favorite, but at least it was familiar. He sighed and shifted his stance.

The garbage can shook.

A half-hitched grin slid on his face.

"_Bonne_ _nuit_, Joe."

X

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. "I really don't get paid enough for this."

Hank allowed a snicker to slip out. Scott threw him a haggard look; he squeezed his lips closed. "It's not extraordinarily out of his character, you know." He glanced at where Rogue stood staring down the hall and wringing her hands nervously. "He's been showing symptoms of cabin fever for several weeks now."

Scott inclined his head. "As long as he didn't leave the grounds; he's not been told of the circumstances."

Rogue looked at them. "What circumstances?"

Sighing, Scott ran a tired hand down his face. "It's the Friends," he began. Rogue visibly stiffened; Scott continued. "They've named him 'Enemy Number One'." He swallowed at the wrinkle that appeared between her brows. "There's a bounty on his head."

"Well, if they don't kill him, Ah just might."

Scott shrugged, acceptance on his face.

"Perhaps we should see if he's with Ororo or JP." Hank suggested.

"Not it." Rogue folded her arms across her chest.

"Rogue, I understand your vacillation, but it is entirely plausible that Remy could be with them."

"And if he's not?" Scott countered, "You really want to open _that_ can of worms?" When Hank opened his mouth to continue, Scott cut him off. "Okay. _You_ call 'Ro and tell her _you_ might have lost her little brother. Then tell her that he's number one on the Friends' mutant hit list. I'm sure she'll take it well."

Hank blinked his blue eyes. "We really should exhaust all possible avenues before involving them. We wouldn't want to worry them prematurely."

X

"I've been watching you for weeks."

Remy blew out a cloud of smoke. "No 'ffense, _homme_, but dat's about a seven on de creepy scale." He tapped the cigarette between his fingers; ash floated to the ground.

"It took me a little while to figure out that you were leaving every night."

No response.

Joseph continued. "I didn't think you would. Since she was in there with you. Laying beside you. In your bed."

The line of Remy's mouth was set in a poker face. No emotion. No change in his demeanor. His eyes watched with feigned interest as he rolled the butt between his fingers and thumb. After a second, he crushed it, the red-hot tip dousing against his skin. Still his face did not change, did not belie his feelings.

"So, I started following you." Joe stretched out his hand. The garbage can rattled against the pavement before sliding toward him. He turned it over and sat down. His face was void of emotion and he used his power to pull another can forward. "Forgive me, I've forgotten my manners. May I offer you a seat?"

Remy raised his hand and shook his head, dismissing the offer.

"Very well." Joe seemed unfazed and continued. "Sometimes, I didn't follow you."

X

Rogue rubbed her temples and tried to keep her anxiety from breaking free. Remy was still at the mansion; Scott had checked the garage and all of the cars were accounted for. She felt a small relief in that, but now, knowing that the Friends still wanted a piece of him, made her nervous all over again. She knew that he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. She knew that he was a skillful fighter with complete control of his powers.

She also knew that she was in love with him.

And she knew that if something happened to him, she'd die.

She tapped the comm link Hank had given her. "He's not on the roof."

"Nor in the kitchen." Hank's voice sounded muffled. "However, I did find the last piece of meatloaf."

Scott's voice sounded annoyed. "I got one place left. Then we have to talk to 'Ro and JP."

Rogue nodded as she answered. "Danger Room?"

"Meet you there."

X

This time Remy looked at him.

Despite his determination to keep his poker face in place, he could feel his jaw twitch. His fingers curled into a fist at his side; the other hand continued to roll the butt nonchalantly in front of him.

Blue eyes reflected a nearby neon light. "Sometimes, I took your place."

The butt stilled in his fingers. His heart pounded within his chest and he raised an eyebrow, his mask beginning to chip away. "_Qu'avez-vous dit?_ (What did you say?)"

Still sitting on the trashcan, Joe leaned in, his elbows on his knees, his hands out in front of him. "I'm curious, Gambit," his voice set Remy's teeth on edge, "her shampoo-is it roses or magnolias?"

His mask cracked wide open. Magenta burned fiercely from his eyes. As his hand shot out, a garbage can lid flew at him and crushed around his arm like a silver cast. Using his power, Joseph grabbed hold of the lid and lifted Remy into the air.

KA-BOOM!

The butt detonated against Joe's chest. The explosion threw him backward. When his head cracked against the far wall, Joe's grip on Remy slackened and the latter was dropped to the ground.

Remy scrambled to his feet, his free hand digging at the metal sleeve crushing around his arm. He couldn't claw it off and he wasn't wildly keen on the idea of turning it into a bomb. He flipped his wrist, freeing a card from its hidden compartment. Filling it with kinetic energy until it glowed fuchsia, he used the card to slice through the lid. It clattered to the ground. Remy crouched down, letting himself fade into the shadows.

With a groan, Joe pulled himself up, blue eyes scanning for any sign of the other man. Pushing silver wisps from his face, he goaded, "Come out, come out, Gambit. Or have you crawled back into the rat hole you came from?" He paused, listening for the scuffled sound of boots on pavement. Only silence echoed back to him.

"She has the softest skin, you know. Like silk." He yanked back his arm. Another garbage can flew toward him, disrupting a pile of trash. Joe sucked at his teeth, clearly unsatisfied with the results. He dipped his head; narrowed eyes searching the dark. Electric lights half-hidden from the alley fell in patches upon his normally handsome features. The effect was off-putting, elongating Joe's face into a malevolent mask.

Remy kept to the shadows, analyzing his opponent and biding his time. His shoulder was beginning to burn; while he used it during his self-prescribed Danger Room sessions, he realized he hadn't before had it yanked up above his head and his entire weight hung from it. The fact that Joe's leg had healed and he was still recovering from his wounds weighed in the other man's favor. He moved silently through the shadows, his eyes more equipped for the darkness than the blue-eyed man currently stalking him. In his peripheral vision, he spotted the outline of a fire escape. He licked his lips, his mind flipping through a variety of scenarios, none of which ended favorably for him.

The problem with this sim, he silently evaluated, was that it was littered with metal.

Here, he was the underdog.

He had cards, rocks, broken bottles, and the assorted paper product; Joe had, well, everything else.

Trash cans careened across the way, heaping themselves into a pile. Finding plenty of trash, but no Gambit, Joe growled. "Coward!" He bared his teeth, cursing the man hidden in the shadows. "You don't deserve her!" As if to punctuate his feelings, he threw his arms into the air.

Above him, Remy could hear the squeal of metal being pulled too far. He looked up; the fire escape stretched, protesting its closeness to the decrepit building. Tiny explosions rained brick upon him as the contraption freed itself from its hanging place. It pulled and twisted, a great metallic snake leaving the confines of its basket at the wish of its charmer. Joe beckoned; it responded. Wave after wave of its steps and landings slithered from the building until it lay, coiled and predatory, at Joe's feet.

If it wasn't probably going to be the death of him, Remy would've been impressed.

Joe raised his arms once more; the serpentine pile of metal lifted its rusty head. He pushed his hand forward; the fire escape dove against a building. It sounded like a bomb when it hit. As the beast pulled back its head, the rest of the wall collapsed.

Joe seemed to be satisfied with his creation and clicked his tongue at his adversary. "Oh, Gambit, Gambit, Gambit." This time his tone was mirthful, a direct contrast to the biting words he had previously shouted. "You can't hide forever!"

"Don't got to." Remy answered with a handful of crushed brick.

Joe hollered as the charged particles exploded in his face; he clawed at his eyes. Remy dug his fist into Joe's gut and finished with an upper-cut to his jaw. The silver-haired man fell back into the pile of garbage and trash cans, his soldered serpent freezing in mid-strike. Remy hauled him up by his collar; his power flickered from his hand and filled Joe's shirt.

"You got a probl'm wit' me, _homme?"_

Blood pooled from his nose, disrupted by an eery smile. "Yeah, I do." He wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. "She's _my_ girlfriend. You _left_. She picked _me._"

"_Oui_. And now I'm _back_." Remy's voice dropped to a threatening whisper. "An' you even t'ink 'bout touchin' her, I'll blow you sky high."

"Before or after I flatten you?"

"Won' matter none. I let go an' you're vapor."

"You don't deserve her!"

"Maybe not." Remy's eyes glowed and the twist of his mouth slid itself into a crooked grin. "But neither do you." And, pulling the shirt's charge back, he gritted against the throbbing in his shoulder and punched Joe in the face.

Joe fell back into his pile of garbage; Remy slumped down beside him, his shoulder aching. He let his head fall back against a trashcan and closed his eyes for a second. The swish of the door surprised him and he jerked his head up.

Scott was stalking toward him, his hands balled into fists and his mouth set in a grim line. He stopped in front of the two men.

A lopsided grin slid across Remy's face despite the soreness in his body. "Scott," he acknowledged his friend with a casual tilt of the head.

The stoic man answered with a nod of his own before sighing heavily and rubbing the corners of his eyes. "Saw your run."

A forced chuckle. "An' you came to congratulate me? _Merci beaucoup._"

"Getting a little predictable, aren't you?"

Remy's brow furrowed. "Whaddaya mean?"

Scott shrugged his shoulders, a bored expression playing on his face. "The shirt thing. You some kind of one-trick pony?"

"You get shot twice and see how experimental you're feelin'," Remy retorted.

Scott grinned. Remy decided it didn't suit him. "I've never been shot. I know what I'm doing."

Remy half-shrugged. "You never get into the action. You're an out-fielder at best."

Scott's visor flashed in annoyance; Remy's half-hitched grin smoothed across his face.

"I'll take Joe from here. I'm sure he's got some sort of explanation. Probably you irritated him into it." But his lips flickered upward and Remy knew Scott was on his side. "You need to go back to the infirmary."

As if on cue, Hank ambled into the room.

Remy shook his head. "_Non._ Dere's no way in hell, I'm spendin' another night in dat snowball!" Then, setting his gaze on his blue-furred friend, he added, "No 'ffense, Doc."

Hank merely shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "'We should be too big to take offense and too noble to give it.' Abraham Lincoln." He examined Remy's shoulder before patting him on the back. "Perhaps you would be fine to retire to your own room."

Remy watched him warily. "I'll need to get Rogue."

Hank and Scott exchanged looks. It did not go unnoticed by Remy.

"_Quoi?_ (What?)"

Hank licked his lips. "Rogue's not there."

He sat up straight, worry etched around his eyes. "Why not? Where is she?"

"She woke up and you were gone."

Remy's eyes widened. "_Merde," _he groaned. Pulling himself up, he dodged between his friends and slipped out the door; his boots pounded against the tiled floor.

Scott shook his head as he hauled Joseph up by his shoulders. "That seemed a little dramatic."

Hank innocently cleared his throat. "Well, perhaps, I did insinuate to the effect that she felt neglected or rejected by his actions." He grasped Joe's ankles as Scott shifted his own grip. "But, he _did_ insult my infirmary."

X

He took a deep breath before letting his forehead fall against his bedroom door. He was tired, worn and tired. His confrontation with Joe had used much of his energy and had further exacerbated his wounded shoulder. The dull throb swam down his arm and pumped pain with each thump of his heartbeat. Since he had run from the sub-levels of the mansion, his heart rate was a little faster than he could stand. He was under no pretense that the pounding in his chest was from exertion, however; no, it came from the fact that he couldn't find Rogue.

She wasn't in her room. He hadn't seen her as he flew past the rec room or the kitchen. He considered that she might be on the roof. They were a lot alike in that respect, both enjoying the solitude that the eaves and hangings granted. He pictured her sitting in the warm night air, over-analyzing the fact that he had left her alone in the hospital bed. She was a _fille_, after all, and if experience had taught him anything, it was that they over-thought _everything._

He sighed and pressed his hand into the bandage knotted around his battle-scarred shoulder. He needed to find her before she convinced herself this was some sort of sign that he didn't want her. No, it was entirely the opposite.

He wanted her.

In the worst possible way, he wanted her.

Laying beside her each night while she slept, and him with all the pent-up energy from being confined to the med-lab; it was killing him. He had to have some sort of physical release. And, while it wasn't the preferred one, the Danger Room's runs had served his purpose. He'd been able to hold her, kiss her, and stay the gentleman.

He twisted the knob, fleetingly wondering how he was going to explain the situation to her without making it seem like he was rushing or pressuring her. Stepping into the room, he instantly stiffened.

Candles were lit about the room, bathing it in a golden warmth. The full moon shone silver through the filmy gauze of his balcony curtains. A puddle of moonlight pooled in the center of his bed, and, sitting cross-legged, her skin glowing in the ethereal light, was Rogue.

Her face was calm, open. Her hair was tied back in a messy ponytail, tendrils twisting in front of her ears. The curls tangled their way down her back, skimming the top of a simple, lacy nightgown. Remy's eyes followed the filigreed fabric until it stopped mid-way down her thighs. As he watched, she uncurled her legs, stretching them so far in front of her, he wasn't sure they would ever end. She leaned back, her head tilting so that she captured the moonlight on her cheeks and illuminated the white of her forelocks. Sooty lashes fluttered open and her emerald eyes glistened. They seemed deeper, darker, magnified by the rich green of her nightgown. He had never seen them quite that shade and he caught himself gulping from something akin to terror.

She scared him. Hell, she terrified him. One look from her, one downturn of her lips, one tear, and he could be obliterated. She could turn him into a blithering fool in a matter of moments. And yet, he couldn't resist. He stood staring for several heartbeats before it registered that he was still lingering in his doorway. He pulled the door to and turned back to watch her. She returned his gaze.

Licking her lips, her voice broke the silence. The genteel intonations of her southern accent filled the dim room, but Remy wasn't fooled. He could still hear the tinge of nerves behind her bravado. "Where ya been, Swamprat?" She pretended to study her fingernails, feigning nonchalance.

He moved slowly toward his bed, peeling his trench coat from his body. He grinned when her eyes widened at his apparent boldness. He tossed it on top of the desk and stood just beyond the moon beams' reach at the foot of the bed. His eyes glowed and he could see the pulse in her neck quicken under his scrutiny. An easy grin flirted across his lips and he cocked his head to one side, considering her question.

"Why? You miss me?"

She scoffed at that, pretended to pick at an invisible thread on his blanket. "Not hardly." But her eyes flittered up to his and he saw the spark within them. "Jus' don't want ya goin' and gettin' yo'self killed."

He raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

She swallowed, cleared her throat; he could hear fear inking its way back into her voice. She shook herself, clamping a smile on her face. "Seems the Friends have named you 'Enemy Number One.'"

His brow furrowed. "Is that all?"

That did it.

She flew at him, pushing him back from the foot of the bed as she jabbed her finger into his chest. "What do you mean 'is that all'? Ah was worried, Remy! Ah was worried you went on some fool trip to the city an' they got you! Ah was scared you were lying in some filthy gutter dying! An' all you can say is 'is that all'!"

He grabbed her wrists, a humorous glint in his eyes despite hers beginning to throw daggers. "Sssshhh, Rogue. 'S okay." He chuckled, earning a green-eyed glare. "'S okay, really."

"Ah fail to see the humor in this."

He shrugged, unable to hide his mirth. "If I got de jitters every time I was named t' some hit list, I'd never get t' go anywhere."

"An' jus' how many hit lists are you on?"

"Dat I know of?" He counted on his fingers. "Two hundred eighty-three." He laughed as her face paled and she dropped to sit on the bed.

He joined her, slinging his arm around her shoulders. "Dat was a joke." He swirled his fingertips over her bare shoulder and suddenly the comicality of the situation lessened.

As she examined her hands, he examined her. The strap to her nightgown slipped from her shoulder, dipping the fabric of the bodice down low on one breast. He licked his lips, his body responding instantly to the subtleties of hers. He watched her, his eyes darkening with desire and he ran his hand feather-light up her arm, slipping the strap back into place.

She stilled, turned toward him, her eyes still downcast. He hooked a finger beneath her chin, his touch tender, and lifted her face toward his. When she looked up at him through those long, black lashes, he felt his breath catch. She dropped her gaze for a second before meeting his eyes once more. Swallowing, she reached her hand up to stroke his cheek. She held her breath; he leaned into her touch. His fingertips grazed up her arms before wrapping around her shoulders. His breath shook and he stared into her eyes.

"Rogue." His voice was a whisper. "_Je t'aime _(I love you)."

She smiled. "_Et Je t'aime_ (And I love you)."

And he kissed her.

* * *

And they lived happily ever-after...except for the crazy megalomaniacs...and countless ex-girlfriends that are bound to pop up eventually... ;)

Thank you for reviewing and for keeping tabs on my story. Sorry about the year (plus) hiatus. Who knew all I needed was a change in scenery? This is my first story (that I actually finished and had the guts to share) and I hope that you enjoyed reading it as much as I loved writing it. Now I can _finally_ start a new story...

Please review.

Thank you for reading!


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